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CHARLOTTE M. BRAEME, 


Author of “ Dora Thorne 


If TO 27 VaNdeW/TE[\ 3 t 


EWYoi^ 


he Seaside *^b»k»rarT. Pocket Edition. Issued Tii-weektyr" Bf«©naBB(#Wi|ww««8<r pel 
iKhted 1885. hy OeorRe Munro— Entered at the Post Office at New York at second class rates 








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irtTCifel^iLlw* 

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THE 


New York Fireside Companion. 


Essenliallf a Paper for tie Home Circle. 


PURE, BRIGHT AND INTERESTING. 


THE FIRESIDE COMPANION numbers among its contributors the best of 
living fiction writers. 

Its Detective Stories are the most absorbing ever published, and its spe- 


cialties are features peculiar to this journal. 



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A Fashion Article, embracing the newest modes, prices, etc., by a noted 
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ceivable subject. 


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GEORGE 



Publisher, 


■s 


P. 0. Box 3751. 


17 to 27 Vandewater Street, New York. 


BETWEEN TWO^LOVES 


A JVOVBL. 


By charlotte M. BRAEME, 

Author of “ Dora Thorne.** 


r ■ ■ 

I 


“ Why did you say my lip was sweet, 
And made the scarlet pale? 

And why did L young witless maid. 
Believe the natt’ring tale?” 


^ . i - - -ii.Q ^ 

MAY 27 188^ / 

C/y. 


NEW YORK; 

GEORGE MUNRO, PUBLISHER, 

17 TO 27 Vandewater Street. 



* 


1 




1 . > 


✓ 






BETWEEN TWO LOVES 


CIIA.PTEU 1. 

“women play at love.” 

“ 1 AM not so unreasonable as to expect much reason from a gen- 
tleman, Sir Clinton; your illustrious sex is not tamed for it: but 1 
think tliere are few men in the world brave enough to deny one 
fact.” 

“ And what is the tact. Lady May?” inquired Sir Clinton. 

‘‘It is this: That, let what may happen after marriage, before 
marriage a lady should in every instance have her own way.” 

The gentleman looked slightly puzzled, and then answered: 

“ I thought ladies always had tiieir own way through life — all 
that 1 have known have done so. My mother, than whom a 
sweeter, truer woman never lived, made quite a parade of wifely 
obedience and submission, but in reality she ruled every thought 
and every action of my fatlier’s life.” 

Lady May’s answ^er was a rippling, musical laugh, that was sweet 
as the chime of silver bells, yet had in it something of quiet sarcasm 
that made her lover’s face flush crimson. 

“ You laugh, Lady May,” he said, quickly, “ but 1 plead guilty 
to entertaining old-fashioned notions about these things. 1 believe 
that men were born to rule, to command, to govern; women to obey, 
to advise, to counsel— to guide, if you will— but decidedly to obey.” 

“ It is kind of you to admit that we can guide and counsel,” she 
replied, mockingly. “ Seriously speaking. Clinton, ] do not think 
I shall ever obey. I feel a great inclination to commanrt, to rule, 
and to govern— none for submission or anything of that kind.” 

The handsome face of her lover grew anxious, half sad, as he 
looked at hei. So fair, so imperious, with the pretty airs of a re- 
bellious child added to the charm of her bewitching beauty. 

Lady May continued: 

”1, "myself, no matter what poets say, never could admire the 
Griseldas of the world; they have no charm for me.” 

“ Perhaps it would be better for you if they had. May,” said Sir 
Clinton. 

She held up one pretty, white finger, as though in warning. 

“ You are bound to think me perfect.” she said ; “ and that speech 
sounds as tliough you tliought me capable of great improvement.” 

“ So 1 do,” he replied, hastily; “ at least, that is — oh. May, you 
confuse me, you bewilder me; first with your beautiful eyes, then 


BETWEEN TWO LOVES. 


4 

with your subtle speech. 1 know that my request is a reasonable 
one; you can not drive me from that position.” 

” Perhaps not, but 1 may lead you from it, Clinton; you know 
the old saying about the ‘ thread of silk.’ ” 

“ 1 am neither to be led nor driven,” he said; “ you are my he 
trothed wife, and if 1 object to anything jmu do, and there is reason 
in my objections, you ought to yield to me.” 

“ And you really choose to object to my waltzing with Count 
Soldeni— the count with the dark, dreamy eyes and musical voice?” 

“ X strongly object to it. Lady May. 1 object, as 1 have told you 
before, to your waltzing at all.” 

” That is very absurd,” she replied. 

” Not at all,” he said, his face flushing, his eyes Ailing with a 
deeper light; ‘‘ not at all, May. 1 have w'on you from the world; 
you are the fairest, the loveliest woman in it. I Lave won you lor 
my own; 1 have held your hand in mine; 1 have kissed your lips; 
1 have called you my promised wife. 1 have won you by wooing 
you as 1 think no man ever wooed a woman before.” 

He paused, for the passion of his words overcame him. She 
looked up in his face. 

” You are too earnest,” she said, coolly. 

‘‘ Oh, Lady May, do not be so cold, so cruel to me. so heartless, 
so unlike yourself. How can 1 bear it after having won you thus? 
how can 1 bear to see you waltzing with others, another man’s arms 
round you — you. who ouuht only to be approached wi(h the rever 
ence due to a queen? W*hen you were waltzing with Count Soldeni, 

1 saw one of those bright coils of hair lie unfastened on his shoulder, 
and he touched it — he touched it with his hand, and said something 
laughingly to you.” 

” What of it?” asked Lady May, disdainfully. 

The veins on his forehead grew dark, his hands were tightly 
clinched. 

“ What of it?” he repeated. ‘‘ Why, for one thing. May, it 
opened my eyes; it showed me the fearful depths in my own nature 
that 1 did not even know existed; it showed me of what 1 was 
capable if the demon of jealousy were once aroused in me.” 

‘‘ And all because the poor count was kind enough to tell me, in 
the most flowery and gallant style possible, iliat one of Deval’s finest 
efforts had come to grief; that— let me try to remember his own 
words— that the sun was shining on his shoulder. It w as something 
of the kind, 1 know.” 

And again Lady May laughed musically. 

” He had no right to say anything of the kind,” was the angry 
reply. ” That is whj'- 1 object to waltzing. 1 maintain that it is a 
light, frivolous dance, and tends to make people forget they are 
strangers. Do you think that Count Soldeni would have dared to 
touch your hair even after an acquaintance of years, had you not 
been w^altzing with him?” 

” The cause led to the effect,” she said, laughingly. ” 1 can not 
see in it any reason for such high tragedy as this.” 

“ But 1 do,” he persisted. ” You women, after all, have little 
feeling, Lady May — little depth of feeling. Love seems to me only 
a pastime with you. The mighty passion of a man amuses you; his 


BETWEEN TWO CLOVES. 5 

T 

heart is a plaything; the fierce fire of jealousy something to laugh 
at. You wave your white hands and lead men into a very inferno 
of pain and anger. You dissect his siifterings, and take each sepa- 
rate pang as an extra tribute to yourselves. 1 say that you play aV 
love, and know nothing of its depth or meaning.” 

She raised her beautiful eyes to his. 

” Perhaps,” she said, gently, the day may come when 1 shall 
remind you of those words— Women play at love, and know noth- 
ing of its depth and meaning.'' Y'ou hear that 1 can repeat them 
correctly, and 1 repeat also that, some day or other, 1 shall bring 
them against you.” 

ile drew nearer to her; he was so deeply in earnest that he did 
noi perceive her mood was changing. 

” Women play at love, do they, Clinton? What of those grand- 
old stories poets tell us— are they all untrue? Did Juliet play at 
Jove? Was poor Desdemona’s love play? Was Lady Russell’s love 
for her husband all play? What of the hapless Spanish queen, who 
for years refused to leave her dead husband? vVhat of those who 
have periled life, fame, happiness, all for the men they loved — was 
it all play? Was it jrlay when Eleanor drew from tlie poisoned 
wound its venom, and so saved her king? Ah, Oliuton, history, 
poetry, fiction, do not tell us woman’s love is play.” 

” Times have changed,” he said, gloomily. ‘‘ Women used to 
be earnest, God-fearing, after a simple fashion; now they are, by 
education, by training, almost by nature, frivolous, light, vain, 
capricious — playing with great passions as children play with fire 
Ah, Ma^c why do you make me say these things?’^ 

“You say them easil}’’ enough — they do not seem to cause you 
any great pain.” 

” INIy darling, you do not know what pain is. You will think me 
fierce, violent — 1 can not help it. 1 declare to you that, when 1 saw 
that man’s presumptuous fingers touch your hair, 1 could have 
slain him; it was as though a fierce fire crept from my heart to my 
brain, and nerved my harids to do strange deeds. There is no fiend 
so cruel, no demon so strong, no pain so terrible as jealousy. You 
must give me the promise 1 ask. May — that you will not waltz 
again, except with me.” 

A gleam of mischief brightened her lovely face. 

“If my hair should happen to fall on your shoulder, and you 
should touch it, it would, of course, not matter, Clinton?” 

” Certainly not; when you promised to be my wife, you became 
all mine— that fairest of all faces, the soft white hands, every golden 
hair on that queenly head, became mine. No rash hand must touch 
you.” 

” It would have been better had 1 been made of wax; you would 
have placed me under a glass case then.” 

*‘ You may laugh, darling, but it is no laughing matter lor me. 

1 could be jealous of the sun that shines on you, of the wind that 
kisses your face, of the flowf^rs that you caress. I Jove you so 
dearly that 1 would^take you in the inmost depths of my heart, and 
keep you there, shielded from every eye.” 

“ And you would not think that selfish,” she said, gently. 


6 


BETWEEN TWO LOVES. 


*' 1 suppose, 1 imagine, ail great love must, of necessity, be self- 
ish,” he replied 

” Therein also you are wrong. You have made two false accusa- 
tions to-day— one is that women play at love; the second, that great 
love must be selfish Now, 1 am not superstitious— far from it — but 
1 have a presentiment that, in the time lo come, 1 shall be able to 
prove to you both those assertions are false.” 

Was it a shadow of the strange, weird future that fell over the 
beautiful faee and darkened it? The smiles faded. Lady May sat 
for a tew minutes in deep, silent thought 

” Shall 1 ever tame you. my darling?” said her lover, fondly. 
” You are like a wild, bright forest bird — shall 1 ever tame jmu?” 

” No,” she replied, and in one minute the bright, gay spirit wurs 
all alive again. ” When you can train an eagle, a wMld mountain 
bird, to come and eat crumbs as the robins do- then you may tame 
me, Clinton.” 

” That will be never, but, May, we need not sj)end the whole of 
this bright, sunny day in arguing. Give me the promise, my darling 
— tell me that you will never waltz with any one except m 3 ’self. ” 

There w’as evidently a struggle in Lady Ma^’^’s mind; Uien she 
said, quietly; 

” 1 can not give you the promise. Clinton; 1 should not keen it if 
I did.” 

She had hardl.y finished speaking when the door opened, and a 
footman entered the room. A small card lay upon the silver salver 
he cairied in his hand. 

” The Count Soldeni, my lady,” he said. 

” What have you told him?” asked Lady May. 

‘* 1 said that 1 did not know whether your ladyship was at home 
or not, but that 1 w^ould inquire.” 

*' The answer is— not at home,” said Lady May, and the servant 
went away. 

She turned, wdth a playful smile, to her lover. 

” Now will you call me cruel? 1 have sent the count, with his 
dreamy eyes, away.” 

” You aie all that is charming,” he replied. 

She held out her wdiite, jew'eled hand to him.. 

” We will not quarrel any more to-day, then, Clinton. 1 can not 
give 3 U)U the promise, but 1 will do as the newspapers say about 
petitions— 1 wdll ‘ take it into consideration.' And now 1 must say 
good-morning; you have been here twe hours; 1 have visitors com 
ing; the two hours have passed very quickly.” 

” My love— my darling, make me happy with that one promise,” 
he said; but she laid her white hand on liis lips and silenced them. 


CHAPTER 11. 

“let me enjoy my youth.” 

There was, perhaps, no prettier room in London than this 
boudoir in Clifle House. Tliere was certainly no lovelier woman 
than this one who refused her lover the promfee he asked. Clifie 
House was the town residence of the Lady May Tievlyn, the sole 


BETWEEN TWO LOVES. 


rf 

% 

daughter and lieiress o( the late Moidaunt, Earl of Trevlyn, the 
fairest girl and the weallldest heiress in England. Those who spoke 
of Jjady IMay’s faults, ahva^’^s excused them by saying; 

“ What could be expected?— her mother had been one of the 
proudest women of the day, far too proud to see any fault in her little 
' daughter— far too proud to believe that any child of hers could be 
anything except perfect.” 

When masters and governesses complained, the Countess Trevlyn 
bad but one reply: 

” Ihey did not understand the Lady May, and did not manage 
her well.” 

Those wno were conscientious resigned after a time; those who 
were not made no altemi)t at correction. The countess died when 
her little daughter reached her sixth year, and the earl cared hut 
little lor his home. Mordaunt, Earl of Trevlyn, was by no means 
a model peer; he preferred the gay cities of the Continent to his 
country seat ; he preferred the gay abandon of Continental life to 
the calm, measured propriety of English life. He cared little about 
his native land, less about the duties that should have detained him 
there. He was 'well pleased with his little daughter, simjrly because 
she was his heiress; and the fact of having an heiress saved him 
from the trouble of marrying again. The estates of Trevljm were 
like the title, unentailed — a daughter could succeerl as well as a son. 
He considered that he had done his duty remarkably well. He had 
married, and his wife, Miss Constance Lockwood, was a great 
heiress; he had lived with her in peace and prosperity— they liad 
never disputed. She had been far too proud ever to say whether her 
marriage was a happy one or not. Those who saw the expression 
of relief on her face when she heard that she had to die, said she 
could never have known what happiness was. Her little daughter 
alone caught her last words, and they were, ‘‘It is all disappoint- 
ment.” 

Then when his wife died, the earl had buried her, and had 
meurned for her after the most approved fashion. He erected a 
stately monument to her memory; a stained-glass window in the 
church at Elsdene; a row of almshouses, called ” I^ady Constance’s 
Hounty,” were all so many tributes to her memory. lie placed his 
daughter, after her mother’s death, under what he considered proper 
guardianship, and then thought it high time that he should enjoy 
himself. 

Looking back on his life, the earl was 'weW pleased with it. As a 
bachelor, a married man, and a widower, he considered himself to 
have been without reproach. Now^ that an heiress was provided for 
his estates, he gave himself up to the enjoyment of the life he loved. 
He came to England at rare intervals to visit his daughter, he was 
satisfied to find her growing more and more lovely, and in soniig 
vague ■s^’^ay seemed to consider there was great credit due to him for 
it." f)t her faults or her virtues he never thought; she must be 
highly educated, highly accomplished; but he never said she must 
be^good. Even this guardianship, indifferent as it w^as. ended when 
Lady Alay was only fifteen. The earl enjoyed himself too much; 
he died from a sudden attack of gout, leaving his lovely young 


S BETWEEN- TWO LOVES. 

daughter one of the richest heiresses and one of the loveliest girls 
in England. 

What could be expected? Nature had done much for her; she 
was marvelously fair of face; she was dowered with some of (he 
richest gifts; she had a smile like sunshine — a laugh like clear, 
sweet music; she had a generous heart, a large, Irank, noble nature, 
a grand soul. Slie was impetuous, imperious, charming capricious, 
and fascinating beyond the power of words to tell, she dazzled, be- 
wiiched, and enchanted; yet she was never for two hours together 
in the same mood; tne strange thiug was, that greatly as her moods 
varied, each one seemed to suit her best. She was gay, laughing, 
animated, bright, vivacious, witty, sarcastic, all by turns. She was 
thoughtful, silent, and given to reverie, all by turns; she varied as 
the sky and the clouds var}^ yet was always charming. 

She had great virtues and great faults, this fait Lady May; she 
was by no means a flirt, yet tliere were times when one thought her 
the very queen of coquettes, her every action, every gesture liad 
such an irresistible charm of its own. 

At the age of sixteen, Lady May Trevlyn was almost alone in the 
world, sue had a host of distant, titled connections, bat none of 
whom she particularly cared for By the advice of her guardians, 
she chose a cousin of her mother’s, Miss Lockwood, to live with 
her, hut Miss Lockwood was a mere cipher— Lady May ruled with 
the most absolute sovereignty. 

At seventeen, she went through the ordeal of all English ladies — 
she was presented at court, and took her place in society as one of 
its greatest ornaments. It was a strange, piquant, yet almost terrible 
position; only seventeen, beautiful as a peri, and wealthy as a 
princess in a fairy tale. The wliole of her moiher’s large fortune 
had been settled on her, and the inheritance of Trevlyn was in itself 
a grand one. All the world raved about her, as it was sure to do; 
she was more than passing fair, this daughter of a hundred earls; 
hers was not the common order of beauty; the marvelous regularity 
of feature, the aristocratic grace, the exquisite coloring, were the 
least charms of her face; its piquant expression, its varied loveli- 
ness — now grave, now gay — its thousand charms of change, its 
smiles and tears, its April-like loveliness, its radiance of pure beauty, 
could not have been put on canvas— no painter could have depicted 
them; her eyes were of violet hue, large, bright, full of a Ihoiisand 
meanings that could never be told in words; her hair was of blight, 
soft gold — its waving, silken abundance tvas a beauty in itself; her 
figure was perfect — its grace and symmetry were of the liighest 
order; she had “ white little hands,” and little feet. No wonder the 
world raved about her; no wonder that, for once, the tables wire 
turned, and, instead of speculating what gentleman would marry 
her, the world wondered whom she would marry. 

Surely no young girl ever had more lovers. She seemed to live 
in a crowd of them — shewassurrounded by them; flattery, homage, 
adulation were all round her. She only saw the fair and bright side 
of life; she was praised, flattered, complimented, until she began to 
think that she could do no wrong. Whom would she marry? — 
which would she choose from this crowd of admirers? She had 
reached her nineteenth year before her heart was touched at all; 


9 


BETWEEJ^ TWO LOVES. 

by that time the worhl, with ite praise and its flattery, had some* 
what spoiled her. Tlien llie one great love of her life eame to her, 
and her lover was 8ir Clinton Adciir. Perhaps, in a worldly point 
of view, she miglit have done better. Sir Clinton was a baronet; 
dukes and earls had asked her in marriage, and she had refused 
them. The Adiiirs of Eastwold, were an aneient, loyal, honorable, 
wealthy family; but nobler and wealthier men had been suitors to 
Lady May. This love was her fate— she had had none before it, none 
came aftei it; it was the love of her life, the one grand crown of her. 
womanhood— she knew no other. Perhaps one of (he reasons she! 
loved Sir Clinton so well was that he was older than herself— of a' 
graver, more reserved nature; she was unconsciously attracted by 
the very contrast he presented to herself. 

Ills wooing had been a subject of wonder; she was, as he said, 
like a wild, beautiful forest bird, difllcult to tame; it required more 
skill, more talent, more patience than would have been required in 
w inning a battle. 

He did win at last ; Lady May owned that she loved him, and 
promised to be his wife. Then her goodness seemed to come to a 
sudden end — perhaps she had made concession enough; she became 
restive, and her lover, despite his massive strength and patience, 
had some ditflculty in managing her, 8he was his promised wife; 
she loved him more than she knew; 5 ^et she would not hear the word 
marriage named — she attected the utmost dread of it. When he 
prayed and pleaded to her, she wmuld place her white hands on his 
shoulder, and raise her winsome face to his. 8he w^ould say: 

“ My youth, Clinton; let me enjoy my beautiful, happy youth; 
do not tease me about being married yet.” 

She never dreamed that it was love wiiich made her 5 muth so 
beautiful and so happy to her, and he was as wmx in her hands. 

There were times when her coy, shy avoidance of love and mar 
riage almost madder ed him; jmtshe wms so sweet and winsome in 
her graceful tyranny he could not resist it. He could not be angry 
with it. He was, indeed, as he owned to himself, wax in her hands. 

Then he knew she was young to be married— he was willing to 
wait patientl}’^ until she w’as twenty, if she w’ould only indulge him 
by allowing him to talk about their marriage or their fxiture; but 
she would not. She w^as the fairest and sweetest of tyrants. The 
fact of the engagement seemed enough for her. 

“ Is it that you do not love me. May?” he would ^cry sometimes, 
when a look or word from her had silenced him against his will. 

” Ho,” she would reply; ” but, Clinton, love and marriage seem 
so different. Let us go o”n as we are - i d peace. ” 

‘‘ But, surely,” he remonstrated once, amused in spite of hiiiiselt 
— ” surely you will let me speak to you of marriage some day?” 

“ Yes, certainly, Clinton,” she replied. 

” And when will that be?’' he asked, gravely. 

‘‘ When 1 can not help it,” she replied, with impudent frankness, 
for which he did not like her any the less. 

” That is the most cheering prospect I ever heard of for a lover,” 
he said. 

It was no wonder that she, so young, so bright, and beautiful, 
liked to enjoy her youth and defer the responsibilities of marriage. 


10 


BETWEEN TWO LOVES. 


She liked the bright, laughing side of life best, and she had grave 
suspicions that marriage hid some serious cares. It was not because 
she tailed in love for him that she disliked the mention of marriage 
— he misjudged her in that; it was because she did not wish to take 
up the cares and responsibilities of life until, as she had said herself, 
she was obliged. 


CHAPTER 111. 

“will he TAxME heeI” 

Everything goes by repression. Sir Clinton Adair had achieved 
the great triumph of the day; he had won the love of the fairest and 
wealthiest heiress in England, and with that knowledge he was com- 
pelled to be content. Lady May had no idea of making any further 
concessions. 

“ When will you marry me. May?” w^as the prayer ever on his 
lips, and she had no answer for him. So that his love grew by re- 
pression. Because, his fair, imperious queen did not care for what 
she called love scenes, and w^as not willing to talk about marriage, 
he was obliged to suppress, in some degree, the intensity of his love. 
She would, perhaps, have been startled could she have known how 
he worshiped her, and tvhat jealous pain lodged in his heart. 

For he did not quite understand her. He had been accustomed 
to worldly women, who never concealed the fact that a good mar- 
riage, either for themselves, their daughters, or sisters, was the be- 
ginning and end of existence. He did not quite understand the 
reluctance of a girl to leave her girlhood behind her, and take upon 
herself the cares of womanhood. 

Lady May often said to herself that she could not possibly be hap- 
pier than she was. The world was at her feel ; she loved and w^as 
beloved; she was supremely happy in her choice; she believed 
Sir Clinton to be the noblest man in the world; why disturb 
matters when they were so pleasant? It would be time enough 
in a few years to think of marriage; when she v\’as mariied, 
she would be obliged to change her life; she must have less of laugh- 
ter and song, less gayety; she would have cares that would make 
her graver. True, to outbalance that, she would have more love, 
but her heart was warm now with its happy young love; what need 
of more? 

1 But into these thoughts her impetuous lover did not enter. He 
loved her with his whole heart and soul; he would have prayed her 
with his whole heart and soul to marry him at once. Her coy, 
sweet avoidance angered him. If he had remembered her youth, 
and had been more patient, more considerate, this story of a great 
tragedy would never have been written. But he had a man’s nature, 
strong, half fierce, incapable of even understanding the delicate 
windings of a woman’s mind. What was really a dainty dread of 
disturbing a happy, sunny life, a girlish dread of the unknown land 
of marriage, he mistook for want of love. 

So he brooded in silence over his own great love, which grew 
now by repression— gradually jealousy mingled with his love. If 
Lady May had been more like other girls, if she had talked of their 


BETWEE'N' TWO LOVES. 


11 


future, if she Imrl indulged him in pretty love leic-a-tetes, he would 
never have been jealous". As it was, he said that what he could not 
will no one else should have. Ilis fair, proud, dainty love should 
give to no other what she refused him. 

She was his promised wife yet she, in some sweet, vague fashion 
that he hardly understood himself, held herselt aloof from him; he 
had kissed her face once— it was on the evening of their betrothal; 
he had never dreamed of kissing her again. Once he remembered 
laying his hand with a loving, caressinn touch on her hair, and slie 
had drawn herself coyly away from him. It was llie remembrance 
of that tact which angered him so greatly when he saw Count 
Soldeni touch the fallen coil of hair. She had not shrunk Irom him. 
Sir Clinton did not understand that the shy avoidance of him was 
but a girlish sign ot love. 

Day by day liis jealousy increased. It was not exactly that she 
gave him any cause; she could not help being fairer than other 
women, she could not help men admiring her and trying to win 
smiles and kind words from her. Vet, as time wore on, she began 
to take a wicked, amused kind of interest in her power over him. 
It gratified her inexpressibly to be so completely mistress of one 
human heart. 

While he talked about jealousy, and warned her against flatterers, 
she was con'cnt. it was only when he began to lalk about their 
marriage that she turned restive. 

“ My dear May,’' said Miss Lockwood to her, one-morning, “ the 
patience of that lover ot youis is something wonderful. Mind you 
do not try it too tar.” 

But Ijady Ma}", secure in her youth and beauty, only laughed as 
she answered; 

“ 1 should like to know what he would do in that case.” 

Miss Lockwood shook her head gravely. 

” 1 know,” she said, ‘‘ that on a subject like this, all interference 
seems to be impertinence. I do not intend my warning as such. 
1 iiave known men do some strange deeds when their patience 
ended.” 

” But,” said Lady May, ” i do not see how 1 try his patience, 
auntie; tell me.” 

She had a fashion ot calling Miss Lockwood auntie; the elder 
lady preferred it. 

” Tell you! 1 can not tell you; you must know yourself. A long 
time has clasped since you first became engaged to him. yet yen 
will not settle any time for your marriace.” 

‘‘Marriage!” cried the girl, impatiently; ‘‘ people seem to talk 
and think about nothing but marriage. Why not Dave me to enioy 
a few years of my youth in peace?” 

Miss Lockwood looked still more grave. 

‘‘ My dear Lady May, that is not the language of love.” 

* You mistake— you are quite wrong,” cried the young girl, 
eagerly; ‘‘ 1 do indeed love him.” Fler face flushed hotly. ” Why 
do you make me say such things, auntie? You make me ashamed 
of myself.” 

‘‘ My dear,” leplied peaceable Miss Lockwood, ” 1 do not make 
you say them; 1 know you are accustomed to no voice save the 


12 BETWEEN" TWO LOVES. 

voice of praise. Let me, tor once, speak the truth. You promise 
me that j'ou will not be angry?” 

“ It 1 am to hear the truth for the first time, 1 ought to be pleased 
with the novelty,” said Lady May. 

“You shall hear it. 1 will tell you why you dislike all mention 
of marriage, even with the man you profess to love.” 

‘‘ 1 do love him,” interrupted Lady May; but Miss Lockwood 
took no heed of the interruption. 

” Pride is at the root of it all. Lady May; pride, and nothing else. 
Y"ou like your full, free, unalloyed liberty; you like being uncon- 
trolled mistress of all your actions; you would not liKe to be ac- 
countable to any one for anything you do or say; you like being 
Lady May Trevlyn, the wealthy heiress, the leading belle of the 
day; you like being able to bestow smiles and kind words upon a 
crowd of adorers; you are too proud to relinquish the advantages of 
your freedom, too proud to submit to another’s will.” 

Lady May listened thoughtfully; then, with the frankness that 
made her chief cbarm, she said: 

“lam halt inclined to think you are right, auntie. 1 have never 
had to submit, and the idea of it is not very pleasant. 1 am willing 
to own that if 1 were less proud, the notion of marriage would be 
less— what shall 1 say? — less terrible than it is.” 

“ 1 know 1 am right, my dear. 1 have studied you well. Y'oii 
are too proud, Lady May; and there never was a proud heart yet,” 
continued the simple lady, “ that Heaven did not bring low. It is 
all lor pride. Lady May, that you are making one of the most honest 
hearts that ever beat ache with a deadly pain.” 

“ 1 do not believe that,” said 1-ady May, proudly. 

“ It is true, my dear, nevertheless. Sir Clinton Adair is not like 
the same man he was when he first loved you; ne looks sad at 
times, like a man accustomed to repress his feelings. Interference 
is rash, 1 know; but, as you have promised to marry him, 1 think 
you might be a little kinder to him.” 

“ 1 will thiiik of it,” replied the fair, proud girl, and Miss Look- 
wood was content. She knew that the haughty young heiress seldom 
made a greater concession than that. 

“ When you are older, you will know more of the value of such 
love as Sir Clinton’s,” continued Miss Lockwood. “You do not 
appreciate it just noiv, because every one flatters you.” 

“ Hut 1 do appreciate it, auntie. Do you really think he loves 
me so very much?” 

“Think, my dear! lam sure of it. It 1 dared, 1 should say 
that he loved you belter than he loved his own soul. Too great love 
is often punished, as is great pride.” 

Lady May did think ot it the next time she saw her lover; tor 
the first time, and of her own free will, she spoke ot their mar- 
riage. She did it with a flushed face, and a strange slowness of 
speech; but she was rewarded tor the effort by the light that shone 
in his face. 

If it was possible for his love to increase, it did ‘so; the time 
came when its force almost mastered him — when its strength made 
him unjust, indifferent to everything. It was when matters had 
reached this stage that the scene occurred with w'hich our story 


BETWEEK TWO LOVES, 


13 


opens. Lady May had been the leading belle at one of the grandest 
balls of the season. she was engaged to be mairied to Sir Clin- 
ton, it was one of her whims never to dance more than once with 
him at the same ball, and, when he remonstrated with her, she said: 

“ People used to laugh at Colonel Dempster and Lady Creeve; 
because they were lovers, they only danced with each other ; no one 
shall laugh at me.” 

He knew when she took that view of a subject all words were 
vain. He did not like standing by while her sweet smiles and lovely 
face charmed other men; he submitted, but it was with an ill-grnce. 
Me watched the little episode that had angered him so. One of the 
long, golden coils of hair had fallen over Count Soldeni’s arm, and 
he had touched it with a smile. That smile enraged Sir Clinton; 
he said to himself that he would bear this tyranny no longer, that he 
would resist and assert his rights. The morning after the ball he 
called, resolved upon winning from her a promise that she would 
not waltz again, except with himself. That promise he had failed 
in obtaining, yet he left Cliffe House more in love with her than 
ever — astonished, too, at his own daring in having read his proud 
lady-love so long a lecture. 

‘‘ Will he tame her?” that was the question every one had asked, 
and that was the question which perplexed nim as he walked home. 
That is the question, the answering of which forms our story 


CHAPTER IV. 

LADY MAY AROUSED. 

That was the question which, by morning, by noon, andbyniglit, 
occupied him. Should he tame her? Should he ever bend this 
bright, imperious, capricious jrirl? Should he ever really capture 
this ijroud, sensitive heart? Should he ever feel sure of her love? 

He had tested her on this one point, and his test had failed; she 
would not give him the promise he asked. He was not more jealous 
of Count Soldeni than any one else. There was only one of whom 
he felt really jealous, and that was the young Duke of Kosecarn, 
one of the handsomest and most accomplished peers in England- 
one, too, wlio admired Lady May more than most people. He had 
made her an offer of marriage, which she refused, as she loved Sir 
Clinton — refused him, mucli to the young duke's amazement; but 
he would not give up all hopes of winning her; he heard of her en- 
gagement to Sir Clinton, but he argued with himself that all was 
fair in love and war— that, until she was really another man’s wife, 
he should never give up all hope. Of him Sir Clinton was jealous, 
not that his proud, fair young lady-love gave him any cause; her 
manner, even to the young duke, was one of proud, indifferent 
calm. Lady May had learned some lessons of late, and learning 
them had changed her. One of her friends, a young P’reuch girl, 
had recently married, and Lady May was discussing her wedding 
with the Countess of Lunbar. 

“ 1 should look forward to marriage as the end of all my troubles, 
if 1 were a French demoiselle,” she said, laughingly; ” married 


u 


BETWEEN TWO LOVES. 


ladies in France seem to me to have more freedom lhan in Fngland; 
1 do not hear so much of obedience and submission among them.” 

The Countess of Lunbar looked quietly at the girl’s lovely face, 

” My dear Lady Ma 3 ^” she said, gently, ” the law of marriage is 
the same everywhere where Christianity prevails; that law is ‘ sub- 
mission and obedience from the wife to the husband.’ ” 

“J think it is terribly unfair,” said Lady May. “In many 
cases that 1 know the husband is greatly interior to the wife. 
When that is the case, how can she obey?” 

“1 do not think it matters at all,” said the countess, gently. 
“ Providence, in framing that law', did not make it depend on the 
husband’s w'orthiness; it is independent of all such considerations.” 

So, let her speak to whom she would, she heard the same story. 
She began to perceive there w'as truth in it. The time w’as coming 
when she must give up her glorious, unrestricted freedom, and learn 
to obey the wishes of another. She resolved upon one thing: she 
w’ould obey when she was married — she would learn to yield to her 
husband; but, before that time came, she would enjoy her freedom 
to its utmost extent. She would, in everything, in every respect, and 
in every particular, have her own way. 

“ It is the happiest time of my life, and 1 intend to enjoy it,” said 
Lady May to herself, and her notion of enjoyment was like that of 
many other ladies— it consisted in a series of triumphs over her lover. 
If she must obey after mairiage, she would, at least, command be- 
fore; and Sir Clinton found that he had full occupation in obeying 
the wishes and whims of his lady-love. Then, with it all, she was 
so fair in her sweet imperiousness, that he could not resist her. 
Some men w'ould have lost their patience; there were times when 
his was sorely taxed, yet it so happened that, after every whim, and 
every caprice, he loved her still better. She wounded with one 
white hand, and healed with the other. 

“ Shall you go to Lady Browming’s ball?” asked Sir Clinton, one 
morning. 

They were riding together, and he saw how people turned wdth 
admiring gaze to look alter the lovely face and matchless figure. 

“1 do not care much about it,” she replied, carelessly; “Lady 
Browning is no great favorite of mine.” 

“ I am compelled to go,” he continued. “ 1 met Lord Browning 
yesterday, and he would not release me until 1 had promised.” . 

“ Then, if you go, 1 shall go,” she said, with a smile that seemed' 
toiler lover brighter than the fairest gleam of sunshine; acorces-' 
Sion that charmed and delighted him so greaPy, it was with diffi- 
culty he refrained from giving some proof of his happiness. 

“ Ah, May, my proud, peerless May, if you wmuld speak to me a 
little oftener after that fashion, 1 should be the happiest man in the 
world.” 

She w'cnt to the ball — that was the caress; the other hand wounded. 
"W hile theie she w'altzed again with Count Soldeni, and seemed 
thoroughly to enjoy it. 

lie was* very angry, hurt, annoyed, grieved that she showed so 
little deterence to his wishes. He found an opportunity that same 
evening of saying so. The night w'as warm, and Lady May, with 
many others, sought the cool, fragrant conservatories, where the 


BETWEEK TWO LOVES. 


15 


lamps gleamed with a soft, mellow light through the sweet-scented 
llowers; there Sir Clinton found her. She was quite alone, and he 
stood for a few minutes lost in admiration of the loveliest picture he 
had ever seen. The background was formed by flot\’eis and greeu 
leaves. Lariy May, with her golden hair, jewels shining on her 
white breast and circling her rounded arms—her dress of rich white 
lace falling around her — was something wondeiful; her beautiful 
face wore an expression of unusual thought. 

“Ma3q”said Sir Clinton, “do 5’ou not think j^ou are very un- 
kind to me? I ask you as a particular favor, an especial grace, not 
to do a certain thing, and you seem to take an especial deUght in 
doing it.” 

She laughed that sweet, low laugh of hers, that stirred the blood 
in his veins, and made his heart beat. 

“ I must ow'n,” she said, with frank impudence, “ that there is a 
certain charm in doing what one has been wished not to do.” 

“1 think, dear,” he said, gently, “that it you loved me you 
w'ould think more of my wishes, and try, at least, to fulfill them.” 

There was a sound of pain in his voice that made her look up 
quickly. She saw such deep, mute reproach in his eyes that her 
heart was touched; the pretty while flow^ers fell from her hands. 
She rose quickly, and going to him, laid her white, soft hand in his. 

“ 1 came because you came, Clinton — only for the pleasure of 
being with you; do not let us quarrel, now that 1 am here.” 

1 he words were simple, but the smile that went w ith them w^as so 
sweet; the lingering touches of the white fingers thrilled him with 
such liappiness as he had never knowm before, flow could he do 
anything but w’orship her, so sw’eet and winsome, even w'hile she 
was capricious and imperious? 

So, betw’een sunshine and shade, between the fever of love and 
the tire of jealousy, time passed until the great event of the season 
came off— the private theatricals of the Countess of Stvandown. 
Every one has a mania; Lady Swaudown’s was for private theatric- 
als. Every pretty girl, every handsome man, possessed of a grain 
of intelligence, was pressed into the service. Lady Swaudowui’s 
charades, tableau mvants, and private theatricals, were one of the 
events of the season. To the great annoyance of the countess, this 
year a rival had appeared in her especial branch of party-giving— a 
pretty brunette, Mrs. Dunbar, the wMfe of a far-famed millionaire, 
who enjoyed showing her pretty, piquant face and beautiful figure 
in ever}'^ variety of costume. 

Lady Bwandowm’s indignation was great to think that any one 
should seek to rival her. She determined to put forth her strongest 
effort, and to give such an entertainment as wmuld effectually crush 
her opponent. To make this success, she must, of course, first and 
foremost, secure the beautiful young heiress. Lady May Trevlyn. 

Without her, she knew well the whole affair would be a terrible 
failure. People went to parties quite as often from a desire to see 
the lovely Lady May as from any other motive. Lady Swanaown 
was half alarmed; she had heard vague rumors that tSir Clinton did 
not care for these exhibitions, that he had expressed some very 
strong opinions on the point; what if he should interfere— should 
try to influence Lady May, and prevent her from coming? It was 


IG 


BETWEEN TWO LOVES. 


too terrible to be thought of. Full of anxiety, the countess drove 
off to Cliffe House, and found the young heiress at home aud alone. 

“ How fortunate 1 am, Lady May; you are always so surrounded 
with visitors that it is quite an event to find you alone. 1 have 
something so important to say to you. How cool you look in that 
white dress; I have never seen you look anything but cool, now that 
1 come to remember. ” 

“1 suppose 1 look pretty much like other people,” said Lady 
May. 

The countess seated herself with the air of one who had plenty to 
say and intended to say it. She laid before Lady May the exact 
state of the case. 

“You will not refuse?” she said, in conclusion. “ You know 
that 1 am not flattering you when 1 say that my entertainment will 
be the greatest possible success if you will only take part in the 
play.” 

Lady Maj’^ hesitated. 

“ 1 am not sure,” she replied, “whether 1 could. 1 have never 
acted in anything,” 

“My dear Lady May, all women are born actresses,” said the 
countess; “ you have but to try. 1 thought we would give ‘ Romeo 
and Juliet ’ this time, or the ‘ Lady of Lyons;’ which would you 
prefer?” 

“ 1 suppose it is terrible heresy to say it, but 1 prefer the ‘ Lady 
of Lyons,’ ” 

“ And you would make such a glorious Pauline,” said the count- 
ess, meditatively; “ yes, 1 think we must have the ‘ Lady of Lyons,* 
by all means. *1 am so glad it is settled. Do you know what fright- 
■ ened me?” 

“No,” replied Lady May. 

“ I know that Sir Clinton Adair does not approve of anythiiig of 
the kind, and,” continued her ladyship, with a meaning smile, “ it 
is only natural that you should share his opinions.” 

Lady May’s pride was instantly up in arms. 

“ Why should 1 share his opinions?” she asked, quickly. 

“ The reason is obvious,” replied the countess, laughingly; “ for 
the same reason, 1 suppose, that you have graciously consented to 
share his name.” 

“ How do you know he has expressed such opinions?” asked the 
young heiress, imperiously. 

“ Because, my dear Lady May, half London— that is, our part of 
London — is talking about them. It appears that the question was 
brought on the tapis a few evenings since by the hahitues oi St. 
George’s Club— Sir Clinton, you know, is a member. He expressed 
his ideas about tableaux, private theatricals, and all that kind of 
thing, in pretty strong language.” 

“ I suppose he has a right to his own opinion, as 1 to mine, or you 
to yours, Lady Swandown.” 

“ Most certainly replied the countess, quickly, feeling tmceriain 
.ns to how the wind was veering. “ It was not exa( tly Sir Clinton’s 
opinions that made me uneasy.” 

“ What then?” briefly asked Lady May. 

“ It appears that after he left the club there were bets made among 


BETWEEN TWO LOVES. 17 

the young officers — young men wiff do those things, you know, dear 
Lady May.” 

” What were the bets?” she inquired, quickly. 

” Really, 1 do not think 1 ought to tell you, as they concerned 
yourself.” 

“ Concerned me?” said Lady May, her face ffusliing, her ej'^es 
brightening with a proud light. ” How dare any officers or gentle- 
men make me tne subject of their bets? £peak quickly, if you 
please. Lady Swandown. I do not like it.' 


CHAPTER V. 

AN ARTFUL WOMAN’S VICTORY. 

Lady Swandown, looking at the proud, fair face, with its hot 
flush of angry pride, began to fear that she had, perhaps, gone a lit- 
tle too far; but then, when a fashionable lady has an object to 
achieve, she can not possibly be exact as to a word or two. 

” My dear Lady May,” she replied, ” if you take it in that way, 
1 shall be afraid to tell you. It was a mere nothing, after all, only 
showing what impoitance is attached to every movement of yours. 
Young men are not very wise, as you know.” 

What was the bet, Lady Swandown?” 

” Why, those foolish young men, knowing, of course, your en- 
gagement to Sir Clinton, and having just heard his strong dislike to 
what he was pleased to call ‘all such unseemly exhibitions,’ laid 
wagers with each other that you would not appear in them. Sir 
Clinton has something of the character of a brave cavalier among 
us, of course,” continued the countess, seeing that Lady May re- 
mained silent; “ it was very impertinent of them to make you the 
subject of a wager, but they never dreamed, of course, that you 
would know it.” 

” It was impertinent,” said Lady May. ” They said, then, that 
1 should not appear?” 

‘‘They went further than that — they said Sir Clinton would not 
allow it !” 

There was a few minutes’ struggle in that proud heart; she w^as 
halt inclined to take her lover’s side, after all— her lover, who loved 
her so dearly, whose life was bound up in hets, who was so kind, 
so brave, so chivalrous. She was half inclined to think and to say 
that he was right. Her own pride and delicacy revolted from the 
notion of becoming an actress, of making the beauty of her face the 
means of drawing a crowd. Then, too, she really loved him, and 
did not care to displease him. 

Lady Swandown, like the quick, worldly woman she was, saw that 
she had not produced the impression she wished, but rather an op- 
posite one. She, knowing well the faults of the beautiful young 
girl before her, did not hesitate to play upon them. 

‘‘ Of course,” she hastened to add, ‘‘ if there really is any such 
great and serious objection on Sir Clinton’s part, 1 withdraw my 
prayer. We women have to learn obedience, and we can not learn 
it too soon.” 


18 


BETWEEN TWO LOVES. 


“ 1 am not aware that 1 owe obedience to any one,” said Lady 
May; “ami 1 can, at least, please myself whether 1 pay it, even 
when 1 owe it.” 

“ Still, if Sir Clinton really objects to it, 1 should advise you not 
to do it,” said the artful countess. “ My dear Lady May, a quarrel 
is sooner made than healed.” 

She cared very little who quarreled, provided she attained her ob- 
ject, and heard her entertainment called the best affair of its kind 
during the season. Provided she could crush, eclipse, and anuihi- 
lale Mrs. Dunbar, she would have parted half the husbands and 
wives she knew. If she had tried every means in the world, she 
could have hit upon none so certain of success as those she had em- 
ployed. 

“ 1 haveoflen given up my wishes, my amusements and pleasures 
to please the earl,” she continued. “ It is a woman’s duly, 1 sup- 
pose; and a very disagreeable duty it is at times. It is early 
enough for you to practice it, dear Lady May; still, 1 admire you 
lor it. The lime was when ladies’ whims ruled the world; the tables 
are turned now. Well, 1 shall lose the briglitcst star of my fUe, but 
1 admire your docility. Would that 1 could always imitate it. 
Women should be born without will, without mind.” 

“ They are, many of them,” said Lady May, dryly. 

The countess rose, with a deep sigh. 

“ 1 should like to have seen you as Pauline,” she said. “ 1 im- 
agine the lair, proud ‘ Lady of Lyons ’ was something like your- 
self. 1 must try to bear the disappointment as well as 1 can.” 

She moved as though intending to take her leave. Lady iMay sat 
in thoughtful silence, her face bent on her hands. The countess 
gave her one keen, shrewd look, then continued: 

“ INo one will ever dare to call you proud alter this, Lady May; 
and how mistaken all those foolish 3 'oung men will be! Yet, 1 mis- 
take; 1 remember that the majority agreed you would not go.” 

Those last words decided her; tire artful, well-chosen words pro- 
duced their proper effect. 

“ The majority were mistaken. Lady Swandown. 1 intend to ac- 
cept your kiuu invitation, though 1 should like you not to mention 
my resolve.” 

“ 1 will do anything jmu like,” said the countess, her face flush- 
ing with elation at her victory. “ It would, perhaps, lessen the 
awkwardness— 1 mean that it might probably please Sir Clinton, if 
1 asked him to take the part of Claude Melnotte.” 

“Claude Melnotte— 1‘auline’s lover! Oh, no, Lady Swandown; 
do not think of it!” 

The countess laughed. 

“1 thou'jjht, perhaps,” she said, “ you would prefer that your 
lo7er should make love to you even upon the stage.” 

“ Ko; you do not understand!” cried Lady May, with a hot flush 
on her beautiful face. Then she slopped abruptly. How could she 
explain? She was proud, imperious, capricious, but her love for 
her lover was earnest and deep. “ Play at love with him on the 
stage! Oh, uo-a thousand times no!” She shrunk from the idea 
as she would have shrunk from a caricature of herself. She was 
100 deep in earnest for that. “ Sir Clinton would not consent,” she 


BETWEE-NT TWO LOVES. 19 

replied, qiiiet.l 5 % after reflecting how useless it would be to attempt 
to explain this plnise of feeling to the Countess of Swandown. 

“ 1 am sorry for it. He is tall and handsome, with just the ear- 
nest, impassioned face one would naturally give to Claude Melnotte. 
1 will ask the Duke of Kosecarn to take it. They tell me he de- 
claims excellently. He is very good-looiiing, but he has not the 
princely air of Sir Clinton, Should you like me to ask the tluke?” 

Lady JMay looked up in wonder. 

“ It will not matter to me who assumes the character,” she said. 

“ Pardon. It will naturally be of some importance; we shall be 
compelled to have several rehearsals, and this kind of thing leads to 
great intimacy. You would not like any one in the part who was 
not eligible in every way.” 

” The duke will do as well as any one else,” said Lady May; hut 
even as she spoke, a sense of misgiving came over her— would the 
man who loved her with such deep, earliest passion approve of such 
intimacy with the duke? 

Hut the countess, having won her victory, w^as determined not to 
leave Lady May time to rescind her decision. She talked of the 
coming entertainment in glowing terms. 

“If 1 were to spend my life in thanking jmu, Lady ]\Iay,” she 
said, ” 1 could never express one lialt of my gratitude. Whenever 
1 hear praise or approval of my efforts, I shall know that the praise 
is due to you.” 

Dress, jewels, rehearsals, were all discussed, and then, pioudly 
elated, the countess withdrew. In the hall she met Sir Clinton, anil 
looked defiantly at him, as one who should say: ”1 knov^" your 
errand, and I know also that it is in vain.” The countess looked 
at him with a wicked gleam of triumph in her eyes. She was more 
than usually warm in her greeting; having w'on the victory she 
could afford to be generous. 

Then Sir Clinton hastened into the presence that made earth hetiven 
for him. He saw an expression ot unusual thought on the beauti- 
ful face that was his guiding star. 

” May,” he said, somewhat abruptly, ” 1 met going away from 
you one of the people I dislike most in this world — Lady Swandowu. 
1 am sorry you receive her. She is, to my mind, one ot the women 
who do more harm than good as they pass through life. 1 suppose 
you have heard of this mania of hers tor private theatricals?” ‘ 

” 1 have heard of it,” said Lady May. 

“ She knows better, I should imagine, than to expect that 3 'ou 
will take a part in them. 1 must confess 1 can not understand a 
lady exhibiting herself for wholesale admiration.” 

” But are not actresses ladies, Clinton?” she asked, 

” 1 suppose so. Some of them are most estimable ladies; but it 
is their profession. With this amateur acting 1 have no patience.” 

‘‘ Should you play Romeo, if 1 played Juliet?” she asked, laugh- 

ingiy* 

” 1 think not, darling. 1 should not like to play at loving jmii. 
nor should 1 like to say sw^eet wmrds to you in public. After all, 
stage love-making is but a caricature,” 

” We agree for once,” she replied, ” I should not like to play at 
love, as you call it. All the same, Clinton, 1 am sorry you do not 


so BETWEEK TWO LOVES. 

like amateur acting. 1 have accepted Lady Swandown's invitation 
to take part in a pTay.” 

‘'You have accepted it?” he interrupted. 

“ Yes; 1 have pioinised to enact the role ot Pauline. If you do 
not join in the play, at least you will come to see me?” 

Then she raised her eyes to his face. She was almost startled by 
the expression of keen pain she saw theie. He seized both her 
hands in his. 

‘‘My darling,” he cried, ‘‘you will not do this — you can not 
mean it?” 

‘‘ 1 have promised,” she said. 

‘‘ You can not do it; you are not all cruel— all cold. You will 
not trample my heart under your feet; you will not torture your — ” 
I Her beautiful face grew pale as she listened. Proud, imperious 
as she was, she would that moment have given much it she had 
never made the promise. 

“You can not mean it!” he cried. “My darling, if 1 had a 
w'ound — a terrible, mortal wound — how gently you would treat me — 
how your sw^eet white hands would Huger on me with a loving touch! 
1 have a wound, deeper than that given by bullet of lead or sword 
of steel; and that wound is jealousy— a wound so deep, so cruel, 
liiat the gentle eyes ot a fair woman might weep tears over it. You 
are my promised wife, yet you drive me mad with jealousy. I can 
not help it; it masters me; it is stronger than 1 myself. Do not 
widen that deep, mortal wound. May.” 

“ Why should 1 widen it? Why should you be jealous if I take 
part in a play?” 

“Why? 1 have hardly words in which to tell you why. First, 
because for the sake of my own great love 1 would keep you from 
all vulgar e 3 "es. 1 loathe the thought that men should gaze on your 
face, criticise your figure, your gestures, your voice— you, my dar- 
ling, my promised wife!— you, my fair, white lily!— you, whom 1 
reverence as a saint, and would fain keep in a shrine! Oh, Ma.y, 
you ask me why! Does not your own heart give you a thousand 
reasons? Mine does. You can not be so cruel, May — you must give 
it up!” 

“ 1 can not break a promise,” she said, coldly, although his words 
had touched her. 

“ Is it easier to break a heart I ban a promise?” he asked, bitter- 
ly. “ Oh, May, my own love, listen to me.” 


CHAPTER VI. 

“it shall be the test.” 

“ Listen to me,” repeated Sir Clinton; “ remember 1 am only a 
mortal man, and a man driven almost desperate by your coldness 
and cruelty. Do you think it possible that 1 could endure to see 
any man, no matter whom he may be, holding your hand in his, say 
ing sweet love-words to you, looking at you as though he loved you, 
even though it were in play? Do j^ou think that 1 could bear it?” 

“ 1 think you are very foolish,” said Lady May. “ How many 


BETWEEN TWO LOVES. 21 

of our actors and actresses are married; yet, if they were lo think 
and talk as you do, what would become of the profession?” 

“ Other men please themselves,” replied her lover. “ 1 know my 
own strength, and my own weakness, 1 am quite sure that 1 could 
not bear that. ” 

“ It seems an absurd fuss about nothing, it is such a trifle. 1 
wonder you can talk seriously about it, ” said Lady May. 

‘‘ Trifles make the sum of human things. It is no trifle to me,” 
he said. “ 1 know that it would be unendurable. Even for act- 
resses of whom you speak, 1 have often fell indignant; if you knew 
how men criticised them, if you heard tlie remarks, Ihe jests.” 

‘‘ But that is in a theater; 1 should be in a drawing-room.” 

‘‘Human nature is the same everywhere,” he said, abruptly; 
‘‘and if you condescend to perform before an audience, you must 
expect to run the gantlet of criticism. May, surely 1 have some 
influence over you ; surely my wishes, my tastes, my desires are of 
some little account to you. 1 tell you that 1 can not endure any ex- 
hibition of this kind. Let others please themselves. 1 could col 
bear that the woman 1 love should take any part in plays or tab- 
leaux. You may think that 1 am unreasonable; 1 can not help it.” 

She did not reply for some minutes, and Sir Clinton continued; 

“ What is the first impulse of any man who loves anything very 
dearly — is it not a wild, nameless longing to take it away from 
every one wheie he can lavish his love on it?” 

‘‘it is unfortunate that 1 have given my promise,” said Lady 
May, ‘‘ as your dislike to the idea is so great; but, having given it, 
1 can not recall it.” 

” You will not go!” he said. ‘‘ 1 am sure of it, as though you 
had pledged yourself not to go. I am sure of it.” 

‘‘ Why?” she asked, briefly. 

‘‘ Because 1 have faith in you. You would not, ] am quite sure, 
deliberately do anything that you knew would grieve me. 1 have 
faith in you. Even if I saw you dressed, and was tokl that you 
were going to Lady Swandown’s, 1 should not believe it. 1 have 
faith in you, my love.” 

She tried to laugh as she answered him, but his trust in her had 
touched her deeply. 

‘‘ 1 must go,” she said, ‘* not only to keep my promise, but also 
to vindicate my independence. 1 am told that people have even 
laid wagers as to whether 1 should go or not— people who know 
you, and know your objections. You could not expect me to stay 
away after that. It would be said that 1 was afraid of you.” 

” That motive is altogether unworthy of ymu, and will not influ- 
ence you, 1 am sure,” said Sir Clinton. ‘‘ Look at it in this light, 
Lady May — will you not give me the great pleasure and triumph of 
Jetting the world see you respect my wishes and prejudices?” 

‘‘ 1 will not be coerced,” she said, quickly. ‘‘ 1 will do as I like.” 

‘‘ You shall. 1 w'ill not go through the farce of laying my com- 
mands upon you; 1 leave my cause in your hands. 1 am confident 
that, against my wish, you will not go; 1 have faith in you.” 

‘‘ Let us forget the matter. It is a fortnight to morrow that the 
affair comes off; we need not be miserable to-day. Yet, Clinton, 
you must not make any mistake; 1 shall go this time, even if 1 


22 BETWEEN TWO LOVES. 

never go ngain. 1 will not have it said with a sneer that my obedi- 
ence has begun before marriage, and people would say that, I am 
sure.” 

” 1 repeat that 1 have faith in you. May. You will not hold me 
up to public scorn; you will not do that which you know X dislike 
and detest.” 

So it ended, neither of them feeling quite satisfied, both hoping 
tliat something or other would happen to make everything safe. Sir 
Clinton knew lie might as well try to teach the wind which way to 
blow as to try to force or compel his fiancee ; she, on her 

side, could not brook the idea of giving in and staying away, nei- 
ther did she wish to vex or annoy Sir Clinton. She would even 
have been pleased if, without any compromise ot her own dignit}', 
she could have yielded to his wishes. That was the first scene — the 
beginning of the ” little strife ” that was to make all music mute — 
the first notes of the tragedy. The second took place some days 
afterward. 

Lady May was tired — there had been a garden-party, and she had 
been the belle. She had laughed, talked, entertained a whole court 
ot admirers. Sliehad looked fair as a flower, bright as a sunbeam. 
She had been courted, caressed, The day had been warm and 
sunny. She was tired. She was half anxious, for the conversation 
turned so often on the coming theatricals, flow many people had 
said to her: 

‘‘ 1 hear you are to be Pauline, Lady May; 1 am going purposely 
to see you.” 

The world expected it of her. She must go. More than once she 
faiicied she detected beneath the veil of flattery a laughing sarcasm 
—a light, jesting mention of Sir Clinton’s peculiar opinions. He 
was not there; a previous engagement had prevented his going, and 
her heart warmed to him. How different he was, she said to herself, 
to the ordinary run ot men; how much more royal in l;is bearing, 
more noble in his aspect — more noble, she averred, from the very 
structure ot his views, and the great deference he paid to the puri- 
ty, the delicacy ot women. Her heart warmed to him. She began 
to appreciate the mighty, noble love that had been lavished on her. 
She w^as anxious, too, because the young Duke ot Rosecarn, with 
delight and exultation in every feature in his face, had pursued 
her with Ids expressions of delight. 

” 1 think 1 shall play Claude to your Pauline,” he said. ” If fort- 
une had tried her best, she could have done nothing so kind for 
me.” 

Lady May began to think it would not be so pleasant, after all, 
to play at mimic love with the young duke. Then she wished Lady 
Swandown had never been bitten with this theatrical mania. One 
little circumstance had annoyed her. She was talking to Colonel 
Hartmorc about the grand coming event, when Lady Marcel joined 
them, and said, in a peculiar tone: 

‘‘ Do not be too sure, coioncd, that you will seee Lady May as 
Pauline, after all. A litte bird has whispered some strange things 
to me,” 

‘‘ What did the little bird say?” asked Lady May, with a hush 
on her face. 


BETWEEN TAVO LOVES. 


23 

1 must not tell; but 1, tor one, do not anticipate the pleasure of 
seeing you as Pauline.” 

Then Lady "May thought to herself that people were talking 
about her lover’s dislike to the whole affair, and speculating 
whether she would give in to him or not. 

She had been invited to a formal dinner- paity, but, feeling tired 
and anxious, she sent an apology. For once beautiful, flattered 
Lady May felt unequal to meeting the great world. She went out 
into the pretty parterre, that in London goes by the name cf gar- 
den. There was a trailing cedar, a smooth, green lawn, rose-trees, 
and mignonette. The golden sunbeams lingered over them; the 
south wind idly stirred the leaves; the sweet, shining heavens had 
no clouds; the birds were singing in the trees— it was so different, 
this sweet, holy calm of nature, from the tumult and turmoil of 
the world. There, under the shade of the trees, listening to the 
sweet, jubilant music of the birds, her heart warmed again to her 
lover, and the thought of the theatricals became almost distasteful 
to her. She was roused from her reverie by the sound of his voice, 
and she knew that he was by her side. One gleam in his face 
showed her also that he was unusually agitated. 

“May, my darling,” he said, “1 have heard it! 1 was struck 
dumb! Then 1 said to myself that 1 would come and ask you how 
such a story had arisen?” 

She looked at him long and earnestly before she spoke There 
were strange lines in that dear face— lines of pain— and the girl's 
heart reproached her; she had brought them there. 

“ What story is it, Clinton?” she asked, with a sure foreboding 
of what was coming. 

“ They tell me that not only are you going to these theatricals, 
but that the. Duke of Kosecarn, who is my rival— who hits, a score 
of times, publicly avowed his determination to win you from me if 
he can — the man, abcveall other men, of whom 1 am jealous— they 
tell me that he plays the part of your lover on the stage. Is it so. 
May?” 

“ 1 can not help it,” she replied, the rrore impatiently, because 
she felt that her cause was a bad one. “ You can not expect me to 
tell Lady Swandown that you are jealous of the duke. 1 have re- 
fused to marry him because 1 love you. WTiat need is there for 
jealousy after that?” 

“ 1 will not believe it, even though you admit it yourself. 1 have 
faith in 3 mu— you will not betray that faith. I refuse to believe 
that you could be so wantonly, so needlessly cruel.” 

“ And 1 think 5 ^ou needlessly foolish to make so much of wh»t is 
really so little. You have placed me in a most embarrassing posi- 
tion. Do you know that people are positively discussing whether 
1 dare go after your publicly expressed opinion? Why did you say 
so much about it, Clinton?” 

“ Why, indeed? Because 1 believed the woman who loved me 
would have sacrificed a little selfish amusement to please me.” 

“It is not a question of selfish amusement,” she answered, 
proudly. “It is this— it is a question of my obedience to your 
wishes.” 

“ Well?” he said, for she paused abruptly. 


24 


BETWEEN TWO LOVES. 


“ AVell,” she continued, looking in his face with a smile so beau- 
tiful and winning that his heart melted within him — “ well, I am 
not one of the obedient kind, as you know.” 

What more could he say or do? Words, arcuments, entreaties 
were all in vain. Still, he could not bring himself to believe that 
she would really go, when he had expressed such decided opinions. 

” It shall be the test,” he said to himself, as he watched her — 
“ it shall be the test. She says she loves uie; she treats me coolly. 
There are times when 1 think she cares Tor me, and times again 
when 1 feel sure she does not. This shall be the test. If she loves 
me, she will not go; if she goes, it will be that she does not love 
me. And it it tears the heart from my breast, I will give her up — 
1 will leave her. 1 will marry no woman who does not love me. 1 
will not be a dupe or a slave.” 

Yet he loved her so well, so madly, that even as he said these bit- 
ter things to himself, his eyes were dim with tears. Then he felt 
that she was near him — yes, she was standing there, with a pretty 
moss rosebud in her white fingers. She farteued it in his coat. 

” Every breath of that perfume is a message from me,” she said 

And he kissed the sweet white hand, saying to himself over and 
over again, that she would never do this thing, which she knew 
wonld vex and grieve him. 



CHAPTER Vll. 


LOVE AND PRIDE 


The wicked world enjoys lovers’ quarrels. No one knew how 
the story spread, but before long every one was talking about it, 
telling, with laughing faces, that Lady May was going to take a 
part in the play, and that Sir Clinton was not willing. Wagers were 
laid pretty freely. Hopeless lovers, who detested Sir Clintoo be- 
cause he had won the beautiful heiress, fancied there was a gleam 
of light. If she persisted in going, it might lead to a quariel— if 
they quarreled, parting might follow; and if they parted, there w’as 
most certainly a chance for some one else. No one dared to speak 
to Sir Clinton about it. With all his geniality and pleasant man- 
ner, there was something of haughty reserve. The ladies, too, were 
interested in the question; it had a peculiar personal application for 
all of them. It was a matter of obedience and submission. ]\lost of 
them could remember such stiuggles in their own career, and they 
looked on with amused interest. They Hnew that whoever w'on in 
this case would be master for life. 

Would Lady May go, or would she not? For such a trifling mat- 
ter, it w as wonderful how much discussion was excited. A struggle 
for supremacy is always amusing— this v/as piquant. Would°she 
go? Some declared that she had assisted at the rehearsals— that they 
had seen the superb costumes; others declared that Lady May had 
abandoned the idea, and the countess w^as in despair. When any 
one ventured to make inquiries of the young duke, he looked radi- 
antly happy, and said, ” Wait until the evening comes.” it was but 
a trifle, although it afiected three lives; and it was marvelous what 
intensity of interest such a trifle excite^. 


BETWEEN TWO LOVES, 


25 


Sir Clinton wondered in after years how he had endured the sus- 
pense of those few days. He loved May with such depth of wor- 
ship, such intensity of affection, that his love was almost a pain to 
him. He had no thought but for her; he had no other idea, no 
other interest in life. She was the wliole world to him. Nations 
might decay, kings rise and tall— he had no world, he had no in- 
terest. Looking on the face he loved, he forgot all else. He had 
loved her with the same passionate love from the first moment he 
saw her, and he would so love her until he died. He said to him- 
self that even after death he must love her, for his love was more 
than mortal. 

He knew he had gained a wonderful victory in w’'inning her — 
that others were envious and Jealous. He had felt supreme scorn 
when people said he was marrying her for money. One hair of her 
beautiful head was worth more to him than all the money in the 
world— one glance of her lovely eyes, one sweet word from her lips, 
outweighed all riches. “ Loved her for her money!” He laughed 
at the notion. He loved her for her own beautiful self, and nothing 
else. He would have married her had she been the beggar-girl and 
he King Cophetua. 

He knew it was not the world’s way to love in this mad, earnest 
fashion. He knew that those who were envious of him w^ert- not 
capable of understanding his love — he hardly knew its depth him- 
self; but when he tried to estimate it, it frightened him. 

One day, when a little group of his friends were discussing the 
beauties of the day, one turned to him: 

” Vou have carried off the belle at last— at least, you intend carry- 
ing her off. Lady May Trevlyn is the comeliest girl in London. 1 
suppose it was her beautiful face that won your heart.” 

Was it? Long after that little group of friends had dispersed, he 
asked himself the question, ” Was it the face he loved?” Nol He 
said to himself that it she lost her beauty, it disease or accident 
robbed her of it, he should love her just the same. It was not for 
her beauty alone; he could not fell what it was for. He only knew 
that in all the wide world she was the one woman for him— that no 
Other face was fair, no other voice sweet, save hers. He loved her 
so, that it she had bidden him die for her, he would have died with 
a smile on his iace. Be would have lavished all that he had on her 
— he would have given her his life and all that it held ; but his great 
love did not unman him. With it all, he would not be a slave. 

If she had bade him, for love of her, thrust his right hand into 
the flames and hold it there, he would have done it; but in her act- 
ing love scenes with another man— consent to doing that, which he 
had earnestly, resolutely, honestly forbidden— that would he not do, 
come what would! 

He was in a fever of anxiety. Would she go, or would she not? 
When he asked her, she looked at him with calm, serious eyes: 

** Of course 1 am going, Clinton. 1 told you so from the first.” 

He began to despair. This was his test, and he seemed to be fail- 
ing. 

May,” he said, one morning, ” 1 have been thinking of a story 
J read once. I can not remember the name, in it there was a girl, 


BETWEEN TWO LOVES. 


26 

like yourself , beautiful and belnml. There was a hero, loo, whose 
merit was mine— the passionate love he had for \\\b Jiancce.'” 

“ It is not uncommon,” she said, with a smile. 

“But listen, dear. The girl was beautiful, light of heart, easily- 
led; and she, just as you have been, was pressed to take a part in 
some private theatricals. Her lover forbade it.” 

” Forbade it?” repeated Lady IMay. 

” Yes; men know how to command. He forbade it. She re- 
sisted, and he told her to choose between her pleasure and himself— 
that if, against his wish, she persisted in going, they must part.” 

Her face grew pale, her eyes flashed proudly, 

” He was insolent,” she said. 

” Not at all. As her accepted lover, as her promised husband, he 
had his rights; he was not insolent in enforcing them.” 

‘‘ How did it end?” she asked. 

‘‘How do such stories generally end?” he asked, mournfull3\ 
‘‘ It ended as you may imagine. Women, 1 tell you, only jilay at 
love. She went, and he kept his word— he left her, and never 
spoke to her again.” 

” Without doubt she married some one else, and lived happily 
ever afterward,” said Lady May, with averted face. 

‘‘ Without doubt,” he repeated, bitterly. ‘‘A little accident of 
that kina— a broken engagement, a ruined life — is not much com- 
pared to the amusement of an evening.” 

Suddenly Lady May looked up at the grave, handsome face of 
her lover. 

‘‘ Clinton,” she said, ‘‘ is your story an allegory? Does it veil a 
threat?” 

‘‘ 1 really read such a story, May. But now let us suppose— only 
8up])ose — that ours was such anotlier case, that we came to a simi- 
lar issue- that we were to part if you insisted in outraging my 
wishes — if ymu knew that your going to that play would part us, 
should 3ma go, Lad3’- May?” 

‘‘ Yes,” sire replied, proudly; ‘‘ 1 would go it 1 knew that my 
going would prevent you from ever speaking to me again.” 

” Then 3mu do not love me, sweet.” 

‘‘ That does not follow. I will not he threatened. The Trevlyns 
are not cowards, you know, Threalen me! Why, I would go 
now, Clinton, if 1 knew that 1 shouhl die there!” 

She looked so royally beautiful in her piide and scorn, he could 
only love hc^. 

” Do you, in all good faith, make that threat, Clinton?” she 
asked. 

He hesitated. 

‘‘ 1 can not,” he said, hoarsely; ” 1 would if 1 could. 1 can not 
lose you. May. May, you hold my life and soul in your hands; 1 
can not lose you. You will not go. You are only saying these 
things to tease me; 3-ou do not mean them. Oh, if 1 loved you less 
— oh. Heaven, if 1 loved 3-ou less!” 

” Do 3mu love me too much?” she asked, gently. 

‘‘Yes, a thousand times too well, too dearl5’- for my peace, my 
happiness, or my salvation! JMy love is my torment; it is a hre 
that burns me, a fever that never cools, a pain that never grows 


BETWEEN TWO LOVES. 27 

less; yet, my darling, I would not be wiiliout it. It may drive me 
mad, it may kill me, but 1 would noi be without it!” 

She was startled by the vehemence ol his words, touched by 
them. 

” Why do you make such a storm over nothing, then, Clinton?” 

” ]\[y darlina:, it is not what you call ‘ nothing.’ If it were the 
mere yielding of my will to yours, I would yield it freely, as 1 
would my life. It is really my manhood which is at stake. 1 liave 
said so much against such things, I have e.xpiessed my opinion of 
them SO freely, that for my promised wife to take a share in them 
will at once proclaim to all the world either that slie has no respect 
for my opinion, that 1 have ho influence over her, or tliat she dues 
not love me.” 

” And it 1 stay away, it will proclaim to the whole world eithei 
that i have no will of my own, or that 1 am frightened of you.” 

” it would only be a graceful act of deference to my judgment. 
May.” 

“ One,” said the proud young beauty, “ that 1 do not intend to 
pay. Acts of deference are not my forte. IMiss Lockwood says 1 
shall be terribly punished for my pride some day. I tell her that 1 
am willing to lake the punishment.” 

Oh, terrible, fatal words! In the dark after years, in the lime of 
her shame and humiliation, when the bright head was bowed to the 
dust, they rose in terrible witness against lier. 

” You say you love me, May — you have promised to be my wife 
— yet you would rather part from me than give in?” 

Certainly,” she repled. 

The word sounded harsh, cold, cruel, but there was a love lisht 
in her eyes, a smile on her lip, a something in her face that seemed 
to say she cared for him. lie was uncertain, irresolute; he knew 
not what to say, what to thkik. Then he seized her hands in a 
passionate clasp, the memory of which lingered with lier long. 

” 1 will not believe it. May. Tou love me; I am sure of it. IMo 
woman could be so fair and yet false. You will not go. 1 have 
all faith in you, my love -all faith. 1 could lose my life sooner 
than lose my faith.” 

Then he left her. He could say no more; his herrt w^as full. 
And she, when tne door closed behind him, had a swift, sweet im- 
pulse. It was to call him back, to throw herself in his arms, to tell 
him that she valued his wish more than all the w'orkl; that she 
would obey it, and give up all ideaot going— a sweet, swift impulse; 
but she did not yield to it. Pride came to the n scue. 

” Not even lor him should the w’orld say she submitted— she w ho 
was admitted to be prouder than most. No one should say that 
she had yielded to her lover’s wish; no one should laugh at her (or 
want of spirit or want of pride.” 

And before she saw him again. Sir Clinton was suddenly sum- 
moned to Paris, wheie one "of his oldest and dearest friends lay 
dying. He had not even time to say good-by to Lady May. 


BETWEEN TWO LOVES. 


/ 




CIIAPTEH Vlll. 

LADY SWANDOWN’s FETE. 

But Sir Clinton wrote, and his letter was a prayer that she would 
do as he wished. He did not know when he should return, but he 
hoped that his absence would not extend over many days; and in 
the meantime, he told her, he should rest secure in her faith and 
loyalty. She might like to tease ancT frighten him, but he felt sure 
she would not show herself to the world, with the Duke of Rosecarn 
as her lover, even though it were only in the mimic love-mahing of 
the stage. He said that he believed it— he tried to make himself be- 
lieve it— he would admit no doubt, no fear, no suspicion. It must 
be so; to think anything else would simply madden him. He would 
only be absent two or three days, he thought, and on his return he 
would win the promise from her. 

He went, trying hard to believe in that which he most wished; 
but he could not return so soon as he had hoped to do— his dying 
friend required so much attention, he had so many affairs to attend 
to for him, that it was utterly impossible to get away. He haci two 
letters from Lady May. In them she made no mention of the 
Iheairicals. They were kindly written- tender, womanly letters — 
and his heart grew waim as he read them. 

She did care for him; she would not write such sweet words if 
she were cold and indifterent. It would be all right; she would 
yield to his wishes; she would not go; and, perhaps, on his return, 
he should be able to persuade her to marry him.' He buoyed him- 
self with sweet hopes; he would not-admil the posslbilit}" that any- 
thing could go wrong. 

It was a strange coincidence, he thought, that in returning he 
should reach London on the very evening of Lady Svvandovvn’s 
famous party. He said to himself that his darling would not be 
there— his proud, fair, imperial love, she would not be there, and 
he would drive first ot all to see her. 

Some ot the interest had died away when it became known that 
Sir Clinton had gone to Paris. Some laughed, and saif openly that 
the dying fricnd'was only an excuse— that he had gone to avoid the 
ignominy of a defeat. 

Lady May said nothing. Whether her lover’s absence was a 
relief or not, no one knew. She kept her own counsel. One thing 
was, however, certain— he had chosen the most efticacious means of 
making her think about him. If he had been on the spot, pleading 
his own cause with all the eloquence he could use, he could not 
have found any argument so persuasive as the fact that he had gone 
away, trusting in her faith and loyalty. 

Yet she could not aive in. Hiss Lockwood, who knew the whole 
story, refraine-d from speaking, because she knew that any opposi- 
tion would increase the danger. So the brilliant, beautiful, courted 
young heiress went on her way, and no friendly hand was raised lo 
show her that it led her to ruip. 


BETWEEN TWO LOVES. 


29 


Lady Swandown ignored the fact of Sir Clinton’s opposition. The 
Duke of Kosecarn was Lady May’s most humble, devoted servant 
— indeed, his servility contrasted with the proud independence of 
her lover; yet, strange to say, although she was rebelling against 
him— refusing to acknowledge that she owed him any obedience— 
she gloried in his exacting it. So contradictory is the fairest and 
most charming sex, that she would have despised him had he been 
like the Duke of Rosecain. 

Between Lady Swandown and the duke she was engrossed— there 
was every detail of dress and jewelry to arrange. She could not 
help feeling flattered when she was told by the countess that she 
had been compelled to refuse more than a hundred applications for 
invitation. 

“ And 1 am quite sure,” said the countess, ” doing full justice to 
my own attractions, that the great desire is to see you, my beautiful 
Pauline.” 

A tew days afterward, tlie countess showed the beautiful young 
heiress a note from one of the royal princes, saying how much he 
should like to see Lady May Tre\lyn as Pauline. Lady Swandown 
laid it before the young heiress with the air of one who has nothing 
higher to offer. 

Surrounded by flattery, homage, compliment, laden with honor, 
the whole world of fashion intent upon her, it was no wonder that 
she forgot the consequences that might ensue. 

She did own to herself once or twice that it was a good thing Sir 
Clinton was away — it prevented unpleasant scenes; and she did own 
also that she hoped, much as she wanted to see him, he would not 
return until it was over. 

“If he does not see the performance,” she said to herself, ” he 
will care less about it;” and then she decided that, as he felt strong- 
ly on the matter, she would never have anything to do with private 
theatricals again. 

She could not draw back now, she argued. Matters had gone 
too far, when even a royal prince had expressed a desire to see her; 
she must go on with it. Yet she knew in her own mind that it was 
not so much the gratification of her vanity as the protrd, rebellious 
spirit within her, that refitsed to submit, that scorned all control. 

So the night came, and its brilliant splendor still lingers in the 
minds of the guests. Lady Swandown’s magnificent suite of enter- 
taining rooms were crowded with the elite oi London. More than 
one royal duke honored her with his presence. A more brilliant, 
select, or imposing throng had not been gathered during the whole 
of the season. 

As a matter of course, the star of the night was the Pauline; the 
charades were good, the tableaux perfect in their way, but the star 
of the fete was Pauline. It is not often that one sees a perfectly 
beautiful woman. Lady May was perfect, and when her beauty 
was enhanced by the picturesque dress and costume of the ‘‘ Lady 
of Lyons,” she was something wonderful to behold. 

Accustomed as she was to homage, she had never been so courted 
or so flattered as on that night. People raved about her; on all 
sides she met with nothing but compliments, homage, admiration. 
It was a night to be remembered— a dream of lights, flowers, jewels. 


30 


BETWEEN TWO LOVES. 


smiles, music— all that the earth has of the hrighfest and fairest— a 
night to be dreamed ot for years afterward. The Duke of Kosecarn 
was beside himself with enthusiasm and delight; every scene in 
which he appeared with the beautiful Pauline w'as rapturously ap 
plauded. The only regret he felt was that the play was not a 
reality. 

The splendid pageant was ended at last. Lady May, tired with 
the unusual exertions, but beautiful as a houri, was standing in the 
hrilliant little room they had called the greenroom. She was 
sathited with compliments; the royal dukes had praised her as even 
they seldom praise. His Grace ot Rosecarn could not leave her. 

“ 1 have but one regret,’' he said, in low, passionate tones — “ only 
one regret, and it is that the i)lay is not a reality. Oti, Lady May, 
Lady May! 1 would work as Claude Melnotte worked — 1 would 
be peasant, soldier, anything, for your sake!” 

“You must not talk nonsense to me,’' said Lady May, with a 
keen distaste for the situation. No matter what was said on the 
stage, off the stage it seemed like an act of disloyaltj" to listen to his 
grace’s lov^e-making. 

” Nonsense?” he repeated; ‘‘it seems to me the finest sense in all 
the world. Lady May. 1 shall never forget to-night; and if yon 
never say another kind word to me, either in jest or earnest, 1 shall 
at least have been happy once. I shall never lose the memory of 
this night. I have been in paradise, and it is something to have 
been there, even if the gates are barred for evermore.” 

” Nonsense again,” said Lady May. ‘‘It is not very Christian- 
like to call the stage paradise— indeed, 1 call it decidedly heathen- 
ish.” 

‘‘ It w^as your words and smiles that made m}^ paradise,” he said. 

‘‘ You may be cold and cruel to me for the remainder of my life, if 
you will, but you have been kind.” 

‘‘ Clinton was quite right,” thought Lady May to herself—” this 
amateur love-making is very bad for any one.” 

” 1 shall keep the memory of your voice in my ears,” he con- 
tinued, ‘‘ long after you have forgotten the wor-ds you uttered. Lady 
May, 1 have been very happy; 1 wish life were one long play.” 

” It is one long farce, 1 believe,” she said, laughing. But he 
gi-evv more serious. 

“ You shall not laugh my sentiment away. Lady May. ” 

” 1 must not remain here, your grace, listening to this nonsense 
any longer,” said Lady May. 

Ilefore she knew what he was doing, tire young duke had seized 
her hand, and kissed it with passionate fervor. ^ Sire drew back, 
flushed, proud, angry, and, raising her eyes, saw the pale, angry 
face of her lover. 

In one moment, with a woman’s tnre tact, she had grasped the 
situation — for one moment, too, her heart misgave her, as she saw 
the scorn in those proud, dark eyes. She advanced, with out- 
str-etched hands: 

“Clinton!” she cried; wdien did you return?” 

But he did not touch the proffered hand. She hardly recognized 
his voice as he spoke. 

“lam sorry to distmb a very interesting iete-d-Uie," he said; ” 1 


BETWEEN TWO LOVES. 31 

owe your grace an apology. Can 1 say a few woras to you, Lady 
May? 1 will not detain you.” 

He had just sense enough to read tragedy, not comedy, in the pale 
face before him. He turned to quit the voom, and the lovers were 
alone. 

” Clinton,” said Lady May, ” what is it? You seem so different, 
your very voice has changed — what is it?” 

She stood under tbe light of the lamp which fell upon her beau- 
tiful upraised face and glittering jewels. She held out her hand to 
him again. 

‘‘You are welcome home,” she said; then her voice died awa}’- in 
a frightened murmur. 

‘‘ 1 will not touch your hand,” he said, hoarsely. ‘‘ Is that the 
hand the duke just kissed? 1 came home this evening, and tliev 
told me you were hrre. 1 did not believe it— fool, madman that 1 
was! I did not believe it; but 1 came— 1, the man who loves you 
— oh, great Heaven! — who loves you better than life. I have stood 
there while lhat man clasped you in his arms, ranted and raved 
over you, drank in die heaven of your eyes, the fragrance of 3 mut 
lips, while he spoke such words to you as 1 have never dared to 
utter. Tell him. tell him from me, to take what he has touched, 
for t will not! Tell him from me that you belong to him, and not 
to me!” 

” Clinton,” she said, ” listen to me.” 

She tried to take his haml in hers, but he drew back from her 
with such haughty pride in his face she dared not even touch him. 


CHAPTER IX. 

“you have slain my love.” 

“ You are unjust to me,” she said, and there was something of 
unusual humility in her voice quite foreign to her; “ you are un- 
just, Clinton.” 

“ I am not. I go away from you — nothing less than death would 
have caused me to go. 1 left you, trusting in your faith and 
loyalty. True, you have said nothing, written nothing— 5 'Ou gave 
me, no promise, but 1 trusted in you. 1 hasten home— what is the 
first thing I see? Xot the woman who should be soul ot my soul,' 
who should have shared my sorrow; no loving face wailing for me, 
no voice to bid me welcome. 1 find my promised wife before the 
admiring eyes ot a crowed, 1 see her clasped in my rival’s arms, 1 
hear passionate words exchanged between them, 1 see glances that 
make ray heart burn and set my blood on fire. ‘ All play,’ of course 
—stage love-making. 1 come away from the stage and find the 
same thing going on. My promised w'ife, hey beautiful face all 
alight, her eyes bright as her diamonds, and my rival, no longer on 
the stage, making love to her still— telling her he would be peasant 
or soldier for her sake, kissing the white hand that has crushed my 
heart as a child crushes a flower.” 

“ 1 could not help it — 1 could not indeed, Clinton. 1 told him 
he was talking nonsense, and 1 was just going. I am not to blame.” 


32 


BETWEEK TWO LOVES. 


“1 say that you are; but 1 am not here to quarrel— words are 
quite useless now. You told me it you had to choose between 
parting trom me and giving up these plays, you preferred the part- 
ing. 1 did not believe it then. Heaven help me! now 1 see that it 
was true, 1 am only here to say good-by.” 

‘‘ Gooy-by!” she repeated. “Nay, you can not mean that. You 
would not surely make a serious quarrel about such a trifle.” 

” It is no trifle to me. You have shown every one that you do 
not care for me; you have gloried in showing how little you cared 
tor or valued my opinion. We will part before worse happens.” 

“ Listen to me, Clinton.” 

‘‘ 1 will not. You may try to bewilder me with the sophistry of 
your words; you might dazzle my sense, you will not convince my 
reason.” 

The pride of her haughty nature, dormant during those few min- 
utes of fear, began to assert itself. 

“ You are at lull liberty to do as you please,” she said; “ indeed, 
the most sensible course we could pursue is to part. You are a 
tyrant — 1 like freedom. We are unsuited to each other. You are 
narrow-minded; you would reduce everything to certain given rules 
—you can not do it. I am glad to part. ]\ly engagement with you 
has been a mistake, a burden, from which I hasten to free my- 
selfl” 

She uttered each word with quick, passionate scorn. He drew 
back amftzed. If he had thought she would humble herself to him 
he was mistaken. She became but the prouder for that which would 
have softened a less proud nature. Without another word, she 
slowly drew the engagement ring from her finger and gave it to 
him. 

“ You will find some other hand for that to fit,” she said, with 
slow, cruel scorn; “ it was always rather small for me.” 

Then they stood for a moment looking at each other in silence. 

Sir Clinton said, slowly; 

“ Good-by, beautiful dream of my life— farewell to all my hopes 
and wishes! I have loved one false as she is fair; she has wounded 
me, as false women do wound, to the very death. You would have 
been kinder to me. Lady May, had you taken a dagger in your little 
wl)it() hand and stabbed me through the heart.” 

” That would have been murder,” she said, slowly. 

“And you have murdered me. You have slain my love, and 
my love was my life. When 1 go out from your presence, 1 go into 
the very darkness and coldness of death; 1 leave my life behind. 
You hav^e done your work well. Lady May.” 

“Lady May! Lady May!” cried several voices. “Where are 
you?” 

She roused herself like one in a deep dream. She seemed hardly 
to understand what was going on. 

“ 1 must go,” she said, slowly. 

“ 1 will not detain you. Lady May. His grace is, doubtless, im- 
patient. 1 have detained you too Jong. Farewell!” 

All his soul was in his eyes as they lingered on her. Perhaps one 
move of her white hand, one sweet, humble word, might have 


BETWEEN TAVO LOVES. 33 

changed the course ot both lives. As it v^as, she turned haughtily 
away. 

“ The duke is, at least, a more agreeable companion than your- 
self," she said, with a little mocking laugh. 

That was her last word. He took out with him into the coldness 
and darkness a picuire of her as she stood there, the light falling 
on her golden hair and lovely face, shinina: on her jewels, gleaming 
in her dress ; he saw her proud, bright eyes, the curl of the proud, 
sweet lips, the haughty figure, drawn to its full height— a picture 
that maddened him with its marvelous beauty and queenly scorn. 
Another moment and he was gone. It seemed to tnat proud beauty 
as though a cloud had fallen over her; her face grew pale as death. 

“ Clinton!” she cried, with a strange gasp. Tben she said to her- 
self: “No; 1 will not call him back, and, if he came, 1 would not 
speak to him.” 

There was another demand for Lady May, and again she roused 
herself, with a sigh— with a strange feeling that something terrible 
had happened to her in a dream. The Duke of Rosecarn was by 
her side, speaking to her in a low, hurried voice. At first she could 
not distinguish his words; then they fell distinctly on her ears. 

“ 1 have not told any one that Sir Clinton was here,” he said. 
“ 1 thought perhaps you would prefer it so. No one seems to know 
he has been.” 

“ Why should 1 prefer it?” she said; “his visit will not be a 
secret. Plenty of people must have seen birn come and go.” 

“No one appears to have recognized him,” said his grace. Then 
he had tact sufficient to say no more. From the expression of lier 
face, which belied her words, he knew that he had done right, and 
had done what pleased her. 

It was all like a dream— she could not realize that it had passed. 
There was no time for thought. One ot the royal dukes had con- 
sented to remain for the grand banquet, with which the evening was 
to close, and Lady Swandown wished the beautiful young heiress 
to sit by him. 

“ You are the star of my entertainment,” she said; “you must 
not cease shining yet.” 

So Lady May, with that strange, numb feeling at her heart, the 
same dreary daze of brain, sat by the diike’s side, and throughout 
that long, magnificent banquet she was the very source and center 
of all attraction. She had never been seen to greater advantage; 
she was animated, brilliant, and witty; pointed repartees, brilliant 
sarcasms, dropped from her beautiful lips. The duke said after- 
ward that there was no woman in England so fair or so clever as 
Lady May Trevlyn. 

Looking at her, no one would have thought that she had just 
broken her lover’s heart, and destroyed her owm happiness. It was 
like a dream to her; she had not realized it yet. From the glittering 
lights, the gleam ot jewels, the crowd of fair faces, her lover’s face, 
white and haggard as she had just seen it, looked at her; but she 
turned away with a shudder. It was all fancy; she must not think 
yet of what had happened; she must wait until she reached home, 
until she w^as alone; then she could think as she might. 

Lady ;May was queen of the fete. As people drove home they 
2 


BETWEEN TWO LOVES. 


,4 

/ 

talked about her; they said to each other that she was perfect in her 
loveliness and in her grace; that she was prouib but then that was 
only natural— a beauty and a great heiress, pride did not seem so 
completely out of place with her. 

They talked laughingly about the Duke of Ilosecarn, how he 
seemeti to worship her. cSome wondered why she should have pre- 
ferred Sir Clinton when she might have been a duchess; others said 
there was no comparison between the two gentlemen, and that she 
had chosen wisely. 

Then there was a confused rumor of Sir Clinton having been seen 
in the greenroom; some affirmed, others contradicted it. The world 
was satisfied on one point— Lady May had taken a part in the play, 
without caring much what Sir Clinton thought or said about it. 
Evidently he would not be the ruling power. Gentlemen huighed, 
and said it was easy to see which sex held supremacy, after all. 
Ladies felt a secret sense of elation — they had a right to iheir opin- 
ions, after all. So the brilliant of the season came to an end. 
Liid}* Swandown w'as amply satisfied; everybody praised and com- 
plimented her; the fashionable journals all declared it to have been 
the event of the season. Mrs. Dunbar was completely annihilated 
— her efforts sunk into insignificance; and the countess owned to 
herself that she had Lady May to thank for it all. That a human 
heart had been well-nigh broken, a life marred, the seeds of a terri- 
ble tragedy sown, my Lady Swandown was sublimely indifferent — 
her object was achieved, and she cared for nothing else. 

It was not until Lady May sunk back among tlie sofi cushions of 
her luxurious carriage that she realized at all the events of the 
night. Then she drove the memory of it aw^ay; she would not think 
of it. Why spoil so fair an evening with so dark a memoiy? Time 
enough yet to recall all he had said and done. Yet it went with 
her, that wdiite, despairing face. She looked out into the sweet, 
soft, dewy night — it was tliere; she looked up to the golden-gleam- 
ing stars— it was there. It pursued her, haunted her. She saw it 
even more plainly when her eyes were closed. 

Home— tliere was Clifiie House, and lights in the hall. Miss Lock- 
wood, contrary to her usual custom, was sitting up for her. Lady 
]\Iay would fain have swept past her to her own room. Her strength 
was giving way a little. Sbe had worn her mask well and bravely, 
hut it was slipping now. Not much longer would she be able lo 
talk with bright smiles and laughing eyes, 

“Are you up, auntie?” she asked. “ What a reveler I am! 1 
believe the dawn is breaking in the skies. You should not have 
waited for me.” 

“ My dear May, 1 was anxious and uneasy. Have 3"Ou seen Sir 
Clinton?” 

“ You need not be anxious or uneasy over him,” she replied. 

“ 1 thought perhaps he would come here with ymu. 1 could not 
rest for thinking of him— he startled me. May.” 

“ He startles a great many people,” she replied, trying to laugh; 
but the laugh died away on her lips, and they grew siiaugely white 
and chill. “ Why did he startle you, auntie?” she asked. 

“ My dear, he droye straight here from the railway station; he 
had just come in from Paris, and he had taken nothing— no food, 


BETWEEN TWO LOVES. 


35 

no Avine; he came here at once, expecting to find you at home.” 
Miss Lockwood paused, and looked at tlie beautitul face betoie 
her. “He looked bright and hopeful when be came in. ‘All 
alone. Miss Lockwood,’ he said; ‘where is Lady May?’ 1 told 
him, and he stood quite still, with a look upon his 'face as though 1 
had wounded him, ‘I can not believe it,’ he said, at last; 'she 
would not go there.’ Then, when he knew it was true, he cried 
out: ‘1 will iollow her!’ 1 begged of him to take something, he 
looked so white and strange, but he would not.” 

‘‘That proves he was not hungry,” said Lady May, trying to 
laugh; but the sound w^as hot pleasant to hear, and Miss Lockwood 
looked up anxiously to her. 


CHAPTER X. 

LADY may’s KEMOKSE. 

” Have you seen him. May? There w^as something in his face — 
1 could not tell what — which frightened me. Have yon seen him?” 

Lady May turned carelessly away; she knew' that her face would 
belie her words. 

” 1 did see him, but onl)' for a few minutes; there w^as a great 
crow'd, and it was such a glorious evening. I must tell you all 
about it to-moiTow — it was Fairyland!” 

‘‘But, May, tell me about Sir Clinton; he interests me, not the 
party. Tell me, was he cross?” 

‘‘ Do you suppose he w’ould show it there even if he were?” was 
the evasive reply. ‘‘ Why should he be cross?” 

‘‘You should not have gone. May; he prayed you not to go. You 
may laugh at me if 3 'ou will, but 1 saw sometliing in his face that 
frightened me. You should have complied wuth his wishes.” 

‘‘ My dear auntie, 1 shall alw^ays please myself. Those who are 
foolish enough to expect submission or obedience from me will al- 
ways be disappointed, 1 am sorry jmu have been anxious — 1 am 
sorry that you have sat up for me. To-morrow 1 will repay you, 
by telling you all about our entertainment.” 

She walked quickly away. It w'as failing rajudly now, this 
artificial strength of hers. Her lips were quivering, her lands trem- 
bling; something seemed rising from her heart as though itw'ould 
suffocate her. 

She passed on quickly to her own room. Her maid, Duval, wuis 
w’aiting. She looked up in w'onder at the face of her young mis- 
tress, 

‘‘ Fetch me some wine,” said Lady May; ‘‘lam very tired.” 

Her maid hastened away. Then she was alone, and her terrible 
misery, her awful sorrow, looked her plainly in the face at last. She 
flung up her white arms, wu'th a wild cry, 
j ‘‘Great Heaven, have pity on me!” she said. 

' She had lost him, he had gone from her, never to return. A dark 
Hist came between her and the light. She cried out again; and 
jldien Duval returned she found her beautitul young mistress lying 
yhcre she had fallen, with her face to the floor. 


i 


BETWEEN TWO LOVES. 


3G 

She had lived loo long among fine ladies, as she idirased it, to be 
either surprised or alarmed. She raised her, opened the window, 
and let the cool night air play upon her; she bathed her hands and 
face in sweet, fragrant waters. When Lady May opened her eyes, 
the maid liastened to reassure her. 

“ 1 am afraid 1 was too long in bringing the wine, my lady. 
You are over tired.” 

But even as she spoke, she said to herself that it was not fatigue 
that dimmed those beautiful eyes and made the beautiful face 
colorless. Duval was discreet. It was not her first situation, and 
she flattered herself that she understood ” fine ladies ” as well as she 
understood the art of hair-dressing. 

” Make haste,” said Lady May, ” and take these things away.” 
She pointed impatiently, as she spoke, to the diamonds and flowers, 
the magnificent dress she had worn as Pauline. ” Take them 
awav,” she repeated; “ 1 am quite tired of the sight of them!” 

” That means,” thought Duval, ‘‘ that she has quarreled with her 
lover.” 

She hastened to obey without comment. 

“Duval,” said Lady May, as the maid was about to quit the 
room, “ you will oblige me by not mentioning my slight attack of 
faintness to any one. 1 dislike all fuss about health.” 

“ 1 will not name it, my lady,” said the discreet maid, who un- 
derstood the whole matter by instinct. 

And then Lady May, the most beautiful, the most admired and 
courted woman in London, was left alone with her sorrow. He had 
gone away; he had left her. He had spoken sharp, cutting words 
of repVoach to her; he had spoken with scorn and contempt. 

“ Let him take what he has touched.” 

She shuddered as she remembered the words— those cruel, scorn- 
ful, teriible words; and now he was gone. 

For the first time she realized her own great love for him — all 
falsity, all sophistry, all illusion was put aside. She understood 
that in defying her lover, in outraging his sense of what was due 
to him, in sending him away from her, she had destroyed her own 
happiness entirely. She had preferred her own pride "to him— she 
had indulged it at the expense of his happiness; and now only her 
piide was left to console her. 

She rose from the pillow that was full of thorns for her; she knelt 
on the ground, and, with her face buried in her hands, she wept as 
women weep but once in life— such tears as never can be forgotten. 
She had done it all herself; there was no one else to blame, "it had 
been in her power to make him supremely happy, to pay him the 
highest compliment that lay in her power, to show her deference for 
his opinion, to show the world that she respected and esteemed him 
— all this had been in her power, and she had failed in doing it. 
Looking back, she did not wonder that he had rebelled against the 
indignity she ollercd him. It was all over now — he had gone, and. 
if she read his face aright, she should see him no more; so the sun 
of her life had set in darkness, and she was alone. Grief had i \ 
way; she spent the long hours that night in lamenting him — she 
would have given all she had to undo what was done; but it was 
irrevocable, she could never undo it. She mourned for him, she 


BETWEEN TWO LOVES. 


37 

^vept for him passionate tears, she called him with passionate cries. 
She struck the little white hand that the Duke ot Rosecarn had 
kissed— struck it, and bruised it. She could have bruised the lips 
that had said such cruel words, the face that had looked at him 
with su(;li cruel pride. Then she said to herself that she must pre- 
serve her ])ride— no one must know the secret of their parting or of 
her sorrow. The morning sunbeams found her kneeling still upon 
the floor, her face swollen and stained with weeping. It was the 
warm, bright sunbeams falling on her that roused her from what 
was really the half unconsciousness ot grief. 

bhe rose from the floor, and^ catching a glimpse of herself in the 
mirror, hardly knew her own face. 

“ This will not do,’; said Lady May. “ 1 have had my own way; 
1 have driven him to desperation — driven him from me. Tears are 
of no avail— 1 must pay for my pride.” 

But all the scents and essences on her toilet-table would not re- 
move the trace of tears. Then the proud young heiress sent to say 
that she would take breakfast in her own room. No one must see 
the trace of those tears, lest they should know they had been shed 
for him. 

She said to herself that she would shed no more; everything else 
had gone from her — she would at least preserve her pride. But 
even when she had taken breakfast, and two hours of the sunny 
morning had passed over, her face still retained traces of tears— it 
was pale, and her eyes were dim. 

” 1 can say my head aches, and, in good truth, it does— my heart, 
too. No oue will wonder at my being tired after last evening.” 

She went down to the drawing-room, where Miss Lockwood sat 
with her fancy-work. 

'7 I was not surprised to hear that your head ached, May,” she 
said; ” you were very late last evening.” 

“ Yes; but the hours flew so swiftly, auntie, they had golden 
wings. Now 1 must tell you all about it.” 

” Before you begin, my dear, let me ask you one question— where 
is Sir Clinton?” 

Mechanically enough the giil repeated the question: 

Where is Sir Clinton? ‘Am 1 mj'' brother’s keeper,’ auntie, 
that you ask me in such solemn tones?” 

‘‘Hush, my dear; never lightly use Bible words. Where is he, 
May?” 

” At home, 1 suppose; perhaps fast asleep.” 

‘‘ lie is generally here before this time,” said Miss Lockwood; 
‘‘ and, do you know. May, they have sent from his house to see it 
he were here, or if we had news of him. He sent a telegram, tell- 
ing them to prepare for him, amt he has not Leen there.” 

‘‘ Has he not been home all night?” asked Lady May, surprised 
out of her cool assumption of inciiflerence. 

‘‘ 1 should imagine not, by that inquiry. Did he say anything to 
you, Mav— was he going back to Baris, or anything of that kind?” 

‘‘ fie did not tell me so; 1 only saw him for a few minutes. He 
looked tired, and not very amiable.” 

Miss Lockwood glanced wistfully at her. 

” 1 know how proud you are, May,” she said, ” and how you 


38 


BETWEEN TWO LOVES. 


dislike all questions; but 1 must say wliat is on my mind, even at 
the risk of displeasing you.” 

‘‘ Say what j^u will, auntie; you are privileged. 1 should never 
think of feeling displeased, as you term it, with you.” 

‘‘Then, May, 1 have an impression— 1 can not tell wdij'- — that 
something has happened to Sir CTmton. 1 know 3^11 will keep 3mur 
own secret, but 1 shall always think there was a quariel between 
you last evening. I'ou defied him so openly; 1 believe your pride 
has driven him to desperation, and he has either sought or met with 
some terrible misfortune.” 

“ "Why do you think so?” asked the girl, in a voice quite unlike 
her own. 

” lou wnll smile when 1 tell you, but 1 believe in these things. 
During the night 1 was startled from m}’’ sleep by hearing his voice 
— Sir Clinton’s voice— crying out for help. It was no fancy of mine; 
1 heard it plainly as 1 hear my own voice tiow, and, unless wc hear 
something of him to day, i shall be miserable.” 

Lady May had risen from her seat; the color had faded from her 
face, leaving it as white as the face of the dead. There was a ter- 
rible fear in her eyes, a quiver as of deepest pain on her bps; then 
she said, slowdy: 

‘‘ Even at the worst — supposing that we had quarreled — 3^011 no 
not think he wmuld be so mad as to destroy himself? He is a man, 
auntie; men are not such cow'ards. ” 

” He is a man, and, as 1 have often told 3mu, May, an exceptional 
one. 1 have seen much of life, 1 have known many love affairs, 
but 1 have never seen anything like Hir Clinton’s love for you. It 
was painful in its intensity, and what he wmuld do if there should 
ever be any quarrel betw'^een 3mu, 1 can not tell— something desper- 
ate, 1 am sure.” 

“Auntie,” cried the miserable girl, “1 am frightened! Keep 
my secret — 1 am frightened! You must never tell— w’e ({uarreled 
and parted last night. If anything has happened to him, 1 shall 
kill myself!” 

“ Hush! my dear. 1 feared that it w’as so.” 

“\ou must keep my secret,” she cried, passionately, “no one 
must know. 1 shall keep up my pride before every one else, but 
not before you — 1 can not to 3^11, because you loved him, too. We 
quarreled and parted. lie could not forgive me for being in that 
stu{)id play, and 1 was proud to him, W’e parted, and now — oh! 
auntie, 1 am so miserable that 1 wish 1 w'ere dead.” She sobbed 
with passionate grief. “1 shall suffer enough; you must never 
reproach me, even by a look. How shall 1 bear it? and it is all my 
own fault.’' 

“ Let US hope matters can beset straight. M^rite to him, Itlay, 
and tell him that you are sorry. He will be here as soon as he reads 
the letter.” 

But the 3mung heiress shook her beautitul head. 

“ You do not know all, auntie— he will never come back to me; 
but send— do send to his house to see where he is. Send from 3'our- 
self, not from me.” 

And the answer was, that Sir Clinton’s housekeeper had received 


r.ETWEEX TWO LOYES. 30 

a letter, telling her the house could he pnrtly closed, for her master 
would not return lor some time. 

j !Miss Lockwood asked where the letter was from, and the answer 
was that it had been posted at the Euston Square railway station. 

The two ladies looked at each other, and Miss Lockwood wiped 
the tears from her kindly eyes. 

“ Heaven bless him and comfort him wherever he isl” she said; 
but Lady May did not dare to say “ Amen.” 


CHAPTER XI. 

ON THE WEONG TRATN. 

Peoele soon tired of asking the question, ” Where was Sir Clin- 
ton Adair?” The general impression was that he had gone abroad, 
though wdiy he should have preserved such mysterj’^ over it no one 
knew. The tashionable world made some very keen guesses as to 
the truth of what had happened, though no one knew it lor a cer- 
tainty. One thing w as quite evident — Lady May’s engagement w’^as 
broken. She was free— whether by her wish, or by his, or from 
mutual consent, no one knew. It was broken; Lady ]\Iay was 
tree — free to be wooed and won. There was a great stir among the 
fortune-hunters, great delight among her admirers. After all, she 
had a right to please herself, and no one knew the rights of the 
story. Lady May lived her life as well as she could. The one 
thing upon which she was more intent than any other was saving 
her pride. No one must know thal she cared lor his absence; no 
one nilist know that she suffered pain— that she mourned tor him— 
that she admitted to herself her life was spoiled. She w’ent more 
than ever into society; she was never alone. Driving, riding, at 
ball, opera, ov fete, one could always see Lady May the very queen 
of society, the most beautiful, the most popular— alwa3's to be seen 
with a crowed of lovers and admirers, alw^ays lovely, imperious, 
alwaj^s fascinating, bright, and capricious, always the center of 
gaj'ety, untiring in the round of pleasure, never wearied of it. Who 
couhr believe that a sorrowful, aching heart was hidden underneath 
this radiant exterior? Who could have guessed all this w^as but 
assumed, to hide the reality of a deep and bitter pain? True, there 
were times when the gayety and brilliancy would die away from 
her — wdien the lovely’’ face would grow pale, the eyes dim with 
tears — when she woiild fling herself, with a passionate cry, on 
“auntie’s” neck, and moan out that she wished she were dead, 
that her life was so full of pain she could not bear it; and Miss 
Lockwmod, with kindly patience, listened to her, and tried to com- 
fort her. 

“ It would all come right in time,” she said, “ when Sir Clinton 
came htK*k. Lady May must write to him— she must tell him she 
was sorry. He would be only too glad to renew the engagement.” 

But Lady May shook her beautiful head, and refused to be com- 
forted. 

“ He would never forgive me,” she said; “ it is useless thinking 
of it.” 


40 


I i- -j - -- 

BETWEEN TWO LOVES. 

But Mips Lockwood hoped for better things, and she made her 
promise most soleainly that she would whenever Sir Clinton came 
back, ask him to forgive her. 

“You did so cruelly wrong, dear,'’ she said. “1 am not re- 
proaching you; but no man, who had any manhood in him, could 
have borne what you tried to make him bear.” 

So Lady May promised that, whenever her lover came back, she 
would tell him that she was sorry, and ask him to forgive her. 

When he came back! but that time was long in coming. He did 
not seem likely to come back. 

The gay, bright season ended. People left town, and went to 
their different destinations. A summer came and passed, autumn 
faded into winter, and there was no news of Sir Clinton. Lady 
May prompted Miss Lockwood to write to East wold, and inquire if 
he was there. The answer was that tliey had not the least idea of 
his whereabouts; he had not been home lor some months, nor did 
they know when to expect him. Then Miss Lockwood wrote to 
his bankers, and there came a brief reply, to the effect that they did 
not know Sir Clinton Adair’s address. 

Winter passed; spring came round again; once more the London 
season was in full life. Lady May, more beautiful than ever, was 
once more queen of that brilliant world. But there came no news 
of Sir Clinton — he seemed to have disappeared from the face of the 
earth. 

The young Duke of Rosecarn seemed to think that he had a chance 
now, and he never left her when it was possible for him to keep a 
place by her side. People began to look upon their engapEement as 
settled. One or two of the papers had already announced that 
there w'ere rumors of a marriage between the Duke of llosecarn 
and the beautiful Lady May Trevlyn — reading which Lady May 
grew very scornful, yet was too indifferent to see that it w’as con- 
tradicted. 

“ Shall you ever marry the duke. May?’’ asked Miss Lockwood, 
suddenly, one day. 

The young girl looked up quickly. 

“ How cruel you are, auntie! You know that 1 have had but 
one love, and there is but one man 1 shall ever marry.” 

“ And it he never returns?” said Miss Lockwood. 

“ Then I will live single for his dear sake — 1 will live and die 
loving him, and no other. 1 shall meet him in another world, and 
he will know then how true 1 have been to him; how 1 loved him 
in spite of all my faults; how 1 repented of my pride, and my 
scorn, and my cruelty. 1 shall meet him as true wives meet their 
husbands — my heart free from any love but his.” 

“ Do you really love him so well. May?” asKed Miss Lockwood. 

“ 1 never knew how well 1 loved him until now— until 1 had lost 
him. Then it all came home to me, and 1 knew what I had done. 
My heart is with him wherever he may be.” 

“Poor child!” said IMiss Lockwood, caressing the golden hair 
wdth her hand; “poor child! it is a hard fate.” \ 

“ 1 deserve it; it is all my own fault. 1 drove the noblest and 
best man in the world from me by my absurd pride. 1 deserve to 
suffer.” 



BETWEEN TWO LOVES. 41 

“ How you have altered!” said Miss Lockwood, musiugly. The 
girl’s whole face brightened. 

‘■' Do you think so‘i?” she cried, eagerly. “ 1 am so glad that you 
do. 1 have tried hard to change my whole nature— to be less proud, 
more humble, more considerate for others. And do you really 
think 1 have succeeded, auntie?” 

” I do, indeed.” 

And tlien Miss Lockwood began making to herself a vivid picture 
of what time would do. Her favorite. Sir Clinton, would come 
back, and they would be reconciled. Then there would be a happy 
marriage, and there would be no drawback to the felicity of the 
two people she loved best on earth. A beautiful picture; but how 
was it to be realized? Sir Clinton did not return. 

Where was he? People were tired of asking the question. Lady 
May had exhausted all conjecture. She knew that he was living, 
because Miss Lockwood had ascertained that his bankers had sent 
two different sums of money to him. They assured her, with all 
possible politeness, that they did not at present know what part of 
the world he was in, that the money had been sent to a Parisian 
bank; but that whenever Sir Clinton forwarded them his address 
they would at once send it to her; and with that Lady May had to 
be content. Two years had passed since the night of that quarrel 
and parting— the question still remained unanswered, ” Where was 
Sir Clinton Adair?” 

He had gone out from her presence that night mad with wounded 
pride and wounded love, mad with jealousy. Had he been less 
brave he would have walked to the river, and flung himself in. 
He was not weak enough, not coward enough for that; but he was 
mad— the fire of his love, the cruel fever of his jealousy, maddened 
him. When he stood out in the starlight, he swore to himself that 
he would never look upon her fair, false face again — that, come 
wbat might, he would never utter one more word in her presence. 
People who saw him in the street moved quickly away, believing 
that he was mad. He raised his hand as though appealing to 
Heaven above for justice, then walked on moaning, as he remem- 
bered that that fair, false girl could never do justice to him. It 
was the amazed looks of the passers-by that caused him to stop and 
ask himself wlujre he was going— what he was doing? A police- 
man recognizing, with the instinct of his class, an aristocrat, touched 
him on the arm, and asked him it he were well. The man started 
back in affright as the dim, haggard eyes looked vaguely at him. 

” AVell? Yes; 1 am well,” he replied. ” What do you mean?” 

” People are all looking at you, sir; you are talking to yourself, 
and seem much excited.” 

“Excited!” cried Sir Clinton, with a wild laugh; “that is a 
tame word, I am mad— a woman has driven me mad. There, do 
not taunt me, do not seek to detain me, or 1 shall kill you!” 

He spoke so fiercely that the policeman started aside and let him 
pass. He looked after him, saying to himself : 

“ He is quite right; if ever a m<m was mad he is the man.” 

“ Where are 3 '^ou going?” said another voice, and this time it was 
a big, burly porter, who saw Sir Clinton sagger and look as though 


42 


BETWEEN TWO LOVES. 


be would fall. “ Where are you ftoing, sir?” be rep(‘uted, stretch- 
iug out bis arm to save him from the fall. 

” 1 do not know,” was the vague reply; and Ihe port^'r looked 
earnestly at him to see if it were wine or folly. Etc, too, starterl 
back in wonder at that w’bite, hairgai’d face, with its wild eyes. 
” You are ill. sir,” he said; ” let me take you home.” 

Then Sir Clinton came to his senses. This would never do; he 
must control himself, or people would really believe hiru mad. He 
was quite close to the Eustnn Square railway station then, and he 
did not pause to wonder how he had walked so far in so short a 
space of time. During that pause liis mind was quite made up. 
He would go at once to Eastwold, and he would never, while he lived, 
go near London again. Jle decided rapidly enough what to do. 

” i have been ill,” he said to the porter. “I have had great 
trouble, and it has driven me half mad. 1 am better now. I want 
to write a letter; then call a cab for me, and 1 will go to London 
Bridge station.” 

He went into the nearest hotel and wuote his letter, the letter to 
his housekeeper, saying that he should not return to the town 
house. Then he hung the delighted porter a sovereign, and went 
oft in the cab. 

London Bridge, sure enough. The train tor Rilton was about 
starting. He wmuld take that. He would go home to Eastw'old, 
and die there — he could do nothing else. He spoke so indistinctly 
that the railway officials seemed to have great difficult}'^ in under- 
standing him. 

” Rilton! Riverton!” repeated the clerk. ” I do not understand 
you, sir,” 

And the consequences of that mistake led to all the subsequent 
events of his life. He never looked at his ticket; he did not even 
hear the directions given him by the porter. He saw' tlie open door 
of a first-class cariiage, and he went in. He sat like one dazed 
until the train reached Riverton Junction; he did not even notice 
that all the people were leaving the carriages. A porter, looking 
in, said: 

‘‘Riverton Junction! Change here, sii, for Nuttord and Skil- 
ton.” 

‘‘ Riverton!” repeated Sir Clinton. ” 1 took a ticket for Rilton!” 

‘‘ You have come by the wrong train, sir! Riliou is on the other 
line.” 

It w'as a slight mistake; but the rest of his life was influenced 
by it. 


CHAPTER Xll. 

DAISY ERNE. 

It was nearly midnight then. T’he stars were shining in the sky; 
the night wind was tilled with odors from a thousand flow'crs; the 
wild roses shone like pale stars in the hedges; the song of the 'uirds 
W'as hushed; the sweet, holy stillness of night lay oveiMhe land; yet 
there was no calm to that fevered, tortured spirit Sir Clinton 
walked out of the great gates of the railioad station without the 


43 


BETWEEN TWO LOVES. 

loast idea wliere he was going, or what next to do. Ilis sole idea 
was that he must seek relief in constant motion, or he should go 
mad. lie walked on, all unconscious wJiere he was. In the dim 
light he saw, stretching out before him, the high-road. It w’as 
skirted on either side by greeir fields and tall trees; the wind mur- 
mured through them; the green boughs swayed to and fro like 
giant arms; it seemed to his delirious fancy that they mocked him 
as he walked rapidly along. 

lie never asked liimself where he was going — whither his walk 
was tending. He never thought how it would end, or anything 
about it. All he did was to walk on under the light of the stars, 
saying to himself that a woman’s piide, a woman’s folly, had 
driven him mad! 

Quite mud! Should he ever be himself again? Would he ever 
laugh, talK. take an interest in life again? It seemed to him im- 
possible — his lile was all over, all erided. A woman’s folly had 
driven him mad. 

“ 1, who thought to do such great deeds— who meant to lead such 
a noble life, 1 am slain by the falsity of a woman!” 

Milo after mile along the quiet high-road, mile after mile, until, 
from sheer physical fatigue, his limbs ached and his steps faltered, 
lie did not think of rest or of stopping, and so the night wore on. 

What was that dazzling his eyes? A gleam of crimson and gold 
in the eastern sky— a great crimson hush and streaks of gold. lie 
shaded his eyes as he looked at it; then, wliat did it recall to him, 
those flashes of crimson and gold? They brought to his mind the 
lovely face of a fair, proud woman, with the light gleaming in her 
jewels, and in the rich, shining folds of her dress — a radiant wminan, 
with luminous eyes, wdio stood proud and scornful, haughty and 
defiant — tlie woman who had broken his heart, driven him mad. 
lie w'ulked on, turning with a sick shudder from the eastern sk}". 

Tlien, from out of the light, as it seemed to him, he saw people 
coming. lie would not meet them; they were only travelers on the 
great highway, but he would not meet them. Perhaps they would 
stop him, as those other men did, and say that he was ill. He did 
not want any one to see him, to speak to him, to observe his hag 
gard looks. . 

To the left lay what looked like a large forest. He saw a mass 
of trees, and a narrow lane (with a stile at the end of it) led there. 
He went down the lane and climbed over the stile; there was a nar- 
row path which seemed to lead through the woods. It was then 
the first faint tremble of dawn. Ihe dew lay on the grass and on 
the leaves; there was a faint, sweet stir, as of coming day. One or 
two little birds, more adventurous than the rest, uttered a few faint 
notes. 

H(! walked on, his strength failing fast now — that almost giant 
strength which comes of madness and despair— catching at the low 
boughs as he passed, but never stopping to lean against the trees. 
There was a strange numbness in his'brmir, he had almost forgotten 
whv he was there. ‘ AVhat had happened— what had diiven him 
mail? He was startled every now and then to find himself crying 
aloud; the sound of his own voice frightened him. ]\Iore than once 
the glowing eastern sky seemed suddenly to dip down and touch 


BETWEEN’ TWO LOVES. 


44 

the tips of the trees. Suddenly, too, the earth would seem to slip 
from beneath his feet; then one foot cauglit against what seemed 
to him the broken stump of an old tree, and he fell, with his face 
on the grass. He could remember a feeling, almost of relief, tliat 
he had lain down to die; then a sudden terrible twinge of pain, in 
trying to turn round that he should not die with his face on the 
ground, and then he remembered no more. 

No more. The birds woke and began to sing; the sun shone 
brightly; the wild roses, the woodbines, the busy bees, all began 
their summer day; but he lay, amid the grass and the fern, driven 
to death by a woman’s falsity and a woman’s pride. 

How long— that he never knew. He was not conscious of being 
found; of a fair face, full of pityiug anguish, bending over him; 
of sweet eyes brimming over with tears; of little hands trying to 
raise him; of muttered words of sympathy and sorrow — he was 
blind, deaf to it all. 

Then, some time afterward, strong arms raised him, and he was. 
carried away— not dead; no, he was not dead. They could feel his 
heart beat faintl}’’; he was not dead. They carried him to the pretty 
little cottage by the woodside, where the wddowed Mrs. Erne lived, 
and she, standing at the cottage door, had said: 

“ Bring him in — we will do all we can for him. Heaven send us 
all friends and deliverers in the hour of our need!” 

He knew nothing of it all. Tie was carried upstairs, and laid on 
the little white bed, in a little white room, where the roses peeped 
in at the windows, and the woodbines climbed round the frame — a 
bright, cheer! ul, airy room, full of sunshine, and flowers, and light. 
Kindly hands laid him on the little bed; then the summer day rolled 
on. 

He could not tell at first how he became conscious, but he remem- 
bered a peculiar feeling of warmth, comfort, and rest. Then he 
opened his eyes, and saw the pretty, white bed; the pretty, white 
room. He would liave spoken, but that he seemed to be stricken 
dumb. The next thing that he noticed was the open window, with 
its wealth ot roses and woodbines; then, near the window, the face 
of a jmung girl. 

Such a face- -so lair, so sweet, so holy— he had seen in the pict- 
ures of saints — pure, meek, transparent. He saw soft bands ot fair, 
shining hair; blue eyes, calm as a summer’s lake; a face all fair, 
save where the dainty rose-flush touched the cheeks and lips. It 
might have been the face of an angel — the old masters painted such. 
The graceful head was bent; he could not see wdiat she was doing; 
then a mist came over his eyes, and he saw no more. He remem- 
bererl no more until he felt the gentle touch of soft, kindly hands, 
and he became dimly conscious that the young girl was kneeling 
beside him, talking about him to some one else. 

‘‘ He can not hear me,” she was saying; “ 1 wish he could. Oh, 
mother, how different he is to every one else — to all the men we see 
here!” 

‘‘ My dear Daisy, we only see gamekeepers and shopkeepers. 1 
lived among the true gentry once, and this poor, wounded stranger 
is a gentleman.” 


BETWEEN TWO LOVES. 45 

“ A gentleman!” repeated the young girl called Daisy; “1 have 
often thought 1 should like to see a real gentleman.” 

“ Vou see one now,” said her mother. 

Then there was silence for some minutes. He felt his hand taken 
between two soft little ones, and gently stroked. 

” What a white hand, mother!” said the same soft voice again. 
‘‘Why, see! mine is quite brown near it. This hand has never 
worked, has never been stained with labor. See, how beautiful! 1 
thought such hands as these only belonged to ladies.” 

Then there was another little pause, as though the mother had to 
think before she answered. Then she said; 

‘‘You must be careful not to say such things, Daisy, when any 
one can hear you.” 

‘‘ Of course 1 shall not, mother.” 

Then she raised the dark, clustering curls from his brow. 

‘‘ What beautiful hair, mother; it is soft and tine like a woman’s; 
see, wliat a wave runs through it. Ah, I wonder whose darling he 
is? Some mother or sister is wondering where he is now.” 

‘‘ Perhaps he has a wife, Daisy.” 

Daisy looked at him with musing eyes. 

‘‘ 1 do not think so, mother. He does not look as though he were 
married.” 

‘‘ How can you tell, child?” 

‘‘I do not know how 1 can tell, but lam quite sure of it. 1 
never understood why — 1 know some things by instinct. Will he 
get better, mother? Poor boy I poor boy! How hard it would be 
for him to die, he is so handsome and bonny!” 

” The doctor will be here soon — Robin has gone to fetch him; 
then we shall know whether he is likely to live or to die. You 
must pray for him, Daisy; 1 believe more in prayers than in doctors. 
1 am going to make the tea.” 

The elderly woman left the room, and sweet, simple Daisy, kneel- 
ing by his side, began her prayers. 

He did not remember that, in all his life, he had ever heard any 
one pray before, and be listened to those sweet, simple words with 
w'onder that bordered on fear. Praying for lu’m! Had any one 
prayed for him, he wondered, since his mother died? 

Then it was Daisy’s turn to look startled, for suddenly she saw 
two dark eyes looking earnestly in her own. 

‘‘ Who are j^ou?” he whispered. 

‘‘ I?” she replied; ‘‘ 1 am Daisy Erne.” 

He said the name over and over again to himself — ” Daisy Erne.” 
He was not quite capable of collected thought yet. He said, sud- 
deiily: 

‘‘ Who is Daisy Erne?” 

‘‘ 1 am Daisy,” she replied, ” and this is my home. You wonder 
how you came here?” 

‘‘Yes. How did 1 come here? 1 do not know you, Daisy Erne. 
You have an angel’s face, but it is quite strange to me. Have you 
come down from the stars?— have you white, swift wings?” 

‘‘No; I am only Daisy Erne.” 

>Suddenly she seemed to remember that she was holding his hand 


46 


BETWEEX TWO LOVES. 


with botii hor own. She dropped it ns though it burned her; then, 
fearing he would think that unkind, she touched it gentl}. 

“ Voii are very ill,” she said. ” Do you know how ill you are?” 

“No,” he replied; “it seems to me that 1 am in a heaven ot 
warmth and comtort. "Where 1 am, and how 1 came here, is all a 
blank.” 

For the time, it was all a blank to him. lie did not remember 
Ids pain, or the cause of it. lie could only realize that, after an in- 
tensity of agony, he was at rest. 

” 1 found you,” said Daisy, in a low voice—” myself 1 found 
you.” 

‘‘ You found roe! Was 1 lost? Where did you find me?” 

” 1 was going through the woods, ami you w’ere lying across the 
path; your foot had caught in the tangled branches ot an old tree. 
1 w’as afraid at first that you w^ere dead, and llien— ” 

” And then?” he repeated , for she had paused. 

” Then 1 tried to raise you, and I could not ; so 1 w^ent to the other 
end of the wood, wdiere the men were it work, and they carried you 
here.” 

” What was 1 doing in the wood, Daisy?” 

She looked at him half frightened. 

” Do you not know?” she asked. 

“No; it all seems blank. What brought me there? Let me 
think. ” 

He buried his lace in his hands, then suddenly cried out; 

”1 remember— oh, great Heaven! 1 remember. 1 had been 
driven mad!” 


CHAPTER Xlll. 
daisy’s patient. 

Daisy looked at him with frightened eyes. 

” Mad!” she repeated. ‘‘Ah, me, how terrible! Have you been 
nad?” 

‘‘ hiot as you know the w’ord,” he replied. ‘‘ 1 -was sane enough 
yesterday. Do not be alarmed at me, Daisy. 1 have never been in 
an asylum — 1 am not mad after that fashion; but a great sorrow 
came to me, and it darkened my reason for a few hours.” 

” AVas the sorrow death?” asked Daisy. 

“Xo; a thousand times worse than death — but 1 can not talk 
about it. Wliere am 1, Daisy? — where is this home of youis?” 

‘‘ It is but a littie cottage, and wm call it Woodside,” said Daisy. 
” 1 live here, alone with m 3 " mother and Robin.” 

‘‘ AVho is Robin?” he asked. 

‘‘ My broilier,” said Daisy, ‘‘ and he’s gone to find a doctor for 
you.” 

‘‘ I shall not need a doctor,” said Sir Clinton. 

He tried to move, and cried aloud with the pain that movement 
cost him. 

‘‘ You must not stir,” said Daisy; ‘‘ you do not know how badly 
3 "ou are hurt. Your ankle is broken — Robin says so; but the pain 
is numb at present. Do not try to stir.” 


BETWEEN TWO LOVES. 


47 


He lay quite still, wondering if what she said were true. Then, 
as thought and reason became clearer, he began to perceive it. Hot 
thrills of pain seemed to clasp him with au iron hand— pain that 
deepened and grew gi eater every moment. It was so bad, at last, 
that it forced a moan from his lips. Daisy bent her innocent head 
over him. 

“ 1 am so sorry,” she said; “ 1 wish I could bear half or all of it 
for you,” ‘ 

Simple, almost childlike words; but they soothed him. It was 
very sweet, after all, to be cared for — to be spoKen so gently to. 

“ If 1 am very ill, you will stay with me?” he said. 

“Yes — my mother and 1. We will take care of you until you 
are well.” 

Theu Mrs. Erne came in with the doctor — a shrewd, kind, clever 
man. He examined his patient carefully. 

“ This is a bad accident,” he said; “ your ankle is broken in two 
places. How did you fall?” 

“ 1 do not remember,” said Sir Clinton. 

“ Ko,” chimed in Daisy; “ he does not remember anything about 
it. He says some great trouble had driven him mad.” 

The doctor looked attentively to him. He saw that his patient 
was a man of condition. He noted with keen observation that he 
wore an evening dress, and had some valuable diamond studs. 

“You have liad a great shock,” he said. 

“ Yes,” replied Sir Clinton; “it was a terrible trouble, a great 
shock. It drove me mad for a few hours, and, in trying to walk it 
ofl, 1 fell —that is all.” 

“ A very c(miprehensive all,” said the doctor. Then he said to 
himself that me trouble had been caused by a woman— he could 
not guess how or what. 

“There never was trouble yet,” thought the cynical doctor to 
himself, “ but that wmman caused it. 1 am afraid,” he said, “ that 
you have met with a very painful and disagreeable accident. 1 have 
a theory of my own about pain.” 

“ Wiiat is it?” asked Sir Clinton. 

“ 1 think that if any one has severe mental pain, that pliysical 
pain relieves it, distracts the mind, takes off the attention, does 
good in a tliousand ways. You have had a trouble that for a few 
hours had driven you mad, you say. You will forget it in the pain 
of your broken ankle. It is broken in two places,” continued the 
doctor, “ and you will have a great deal to endure. You were walk 
insr when you’fell; then you are near home, 1 suppose?” 

Sir Clinton looked at him half dazed. Near home! What a dream . 
it seemed! London— Eastwold! What a whirl of thought! Then 
the picture of that London drawing-room, crowded with people, al’ 
watching, all admiring his promised wife; and then the picture 
that other room, where she stood under the light — fair, proud, a- 
diant. 

” Home,” repeated the doctor, not liking that vague expvs.sion 
— “ you are near home, 1 should imagine?” 

“ No,” said Sir Clinton; “ 1 am far enough away.” 

“ Would you lUvC me to send for any friends?” he -»8ked again. 


48 BETWEEN TWO LOVES. 

* No.” was tlie reply; ” tliere is no one for whom 1 should care 
to send.” 

“ Poor fellow 1” thought Daisy. “ What is the use of his being 
a gentleman it he has no one to care for him? How strange, too— 
so bonny and so handsome! 1 should have thought that many peo 
pie loved him,” 

‘ How long shall 1 be ill?” asked Sir Clinton. 

” 1 am afraid,” said the doctor gravely, ” that it will be many 
months before you will be able to walk again.” 

” It does not matter,” said Sir Clinton, with a deep sigh. ” If it 
had not been for Daisy here, 1 should have lain on my face and 
died in the w-oods ” 

” it was an especial mercy from Heaven,” said the doctor, rever- 
ently; ” and we must imagine that as youi life has been sc strangely 
preserved, it has been preserved for a purpose. 1 can wish nothing 
better for you than that you may live to work that purpose out.” 

They little dreamed, on that fair summer’s day, while the sun 
shone, the birds sung, and the lovely roses peeped in, what shape 
that life would take. 

Then came au interval of intense agony for him, while the shat- 
tered bones were reset — pain so great that while it lasted he forgot 
the pride and scorn, the love of Lady Ma 5 \ When it was over, 
great drops of agony tell from his brow. The doctor, looking on, 
thought to himself, ” Which pain does he find it most difficult to 
bear — a broken heart or a broken ankle, 1 wonder?” 

He gave him a sleeping draught; then, when his patient had fal- 
len into a deep slumber, he turned to Daisy and her mother. 

” 1 must not disguise from you,” he said, ” that 5 mu will have a 
long, terrible task. This gentleman will be ill and helpless for 
months; you had better nave a nurse for him.” 

” No,” said Erne; it seems as though Providence had sent 
him especially to us. We will nurse him — Daisy and 1.” 

” He could not be in better hands,” said the doctor. ” Do you 
know anything about him— who he is, his name, or where he 
comes from?” 

” No,” replied Daisy; ” we know nothing except that 1 found 
him lying there in the woods, and when 1 asked him what took 
him there, he said that trouble had driven him mad.” 

” Perhaps he has lost his fortune,” said Mrs. Erne. 

The doctor smiled quietly, with a surer divination of what his 
trouble had been than those simple women possessed; then he said: 

” Even if he has lost a fortune, he has still a small one left, in 
the shape of diamond studs and a diamond ring. You wdll not let 
him want for anything, Mrs. Erne? He seems to have nioney, but 
we will not touch that until he gets better.” 

“ We are very poor ourselves,” said Mrs. Erne; “but we wdll 
do our best for him.’* 

promising to be there to-morrow, the doctor left them to their 
task. 

Midnight had long passed, and the dawn of another day bright- 
ened the skies, when Sir Clinton awoke— awoke to find the lair, 
pure face oi Daisy Erne beading over him. He felt ill indeed then. 


BETWEEN TWO LOVES. 49 

the pain of his broken limb was great, the fever high, his lips 
parched with thirst. 

“ Give me something to drink,” he asked. 

She gave him something in a glass that refreshed him wonder- 
ful h'. 

“ That is my mother’s favorite lemon tea,” she said; ” the recipe 
for making it has been in our family for many years.” 

She half raised him in her strong, white arms as she spoke. Ho 
felt that he could have rested his head on that kindly shoulder, and 
have wept like a child. 

Then, an hour later, she brought him tea. She bathed his hands 
and face in the most clear, delicious spring water, and she placed a 
great vase of roses where he could enjoy their fragrance. 

” Vou are a capital sick nurse,” he said, faintly. 

” Am 1?” asked Daisy, with a pleased little ^fuile. ” 1 think 
nil women are by nature.” 

“Nay,” he replied, ” all women are not. 1 know some too proud 
and too lofty ever to think of such things.” 

” Then they are not true women,” said Daisy, naively. 

As she stood there, blushing and smiling, her pure, fair face 
brightened with his few words of praise, he contrasted her with 
that other woman who had broken his heart— the one all tender- 
ness, simplicity, and sweetness; the other all pride, hauteur, and 
beauty. The very extremes of womanhood— sweet, simple Daisy, 
and proud Lady May. 

” 1 wish, Daisy,” said Mrs. Erne one morning, ” that you would 
ask the gentleman his name; it is so awkward always saying ‘ he 
and ‘his.’ Do ask him.” 

Sir Clinton was very ill that morning; the excess of pain had 
made him feverish. VVhen Daisy bent over him, and, in her soft, 
cooing voice, asked him would he tell her his name, he seemed at 
first barely able to understand her; then, in a low voice, he said, 
” Sir Clinton.” 

Daisy knew nothing of titles; even the word Clinton was new to 
her. She thought he said Mr. Clifton, and she told her mother 
that their patient’s name was a very pretty one — it was Mr. Clifton. 

1 should not have been surprised,” said Mrs. Erne, if he had 
been a nobleman — he looks like one.” 

” 1 am glad,” said Daisy, musingly, ” that he is not a nobleman, 
he would have seemed so very far above us.” 

” So he is now, child,” said Mrs. Erne — ” as far as heaven from 
earth.” 

Sir Clinton was slightly amused when he heard that new name 
given to him — Mr. Clifton. Evidently these kind people, who were 
doing so much for him. had no idea of his rank; therefore it was 
not from deference, either to rank or title, that they were so kind. 
Then, in his own mind, he formed a romantic little plan — he would 
never tell them who he really was, but he would confer almost end- 
less benefits to them; they should always think of him as Mr. Clif- 
ton, the gentleman they had nursed and cared for. He grew to like 
the name, it fell so sweetly from Daisy’s lips; it was pretty and 
musical He liked it. too, because it never reminded him of his 


BETWEEN TWO EOVES. 


50 

past life. To have heard himself called Sir Clinton by the sweet 
lips of a pretty airl would have been a shock to him. 

So he decided in his own mind to remain uidtnown. More titan 
once the doctor askt d, curiously, whether he would not like to com- 
municate with his li lends. The answer was alw^ays— no; he pre- 
ferred being alone and in peace. He saw that Mrs. Erne and her 
daughter were poor. He called the mother to his side one day when 
they were alone, and made arrangements with her. He told her 
that the doctor thought it probable he should be there for some 
months yet, and he should like to set her mind at ease. Then he 
make her such a liberal offer that the poor woman’s eyes shone with 
wonder. 

“ That is a great deal to give me every week,” she said. Then a 
shadow of anxi^ came over her face. ‘‘ Pray excuse me, sir, but 
are you quite sj[|pyou can really afford itv” 

He smiled at her simple notions, remembering that the house- 
keeper at East wold had just such a sum tor her wages. 8o it was 
settled; Mr. Clifton was to have the sole use of the little parlor and 
bedroom, and the mistress of the house was to give him all the 
care and attention possible. 

” 1 should be quite willing,” thought Sir Clinton, “ to live and 
die here;” but fate had something else in store for him. 


CHAPTER XIV. 

PANGEKOUS INTIMACY. 

The months that followed were like a resting-point in Sir Clin 
ton’s life; he suffered terribly, and w’as quite unable to walk. 
How many long weeks he spent in that little white room he soon 
ceased to count. He w’atched the flowers fade, the reel roses 
droop one by one and die; he watched the woodbines fall, he saw 
that the tints of tlie sky grew more dull; he watched the blight 
summer fade into autumn — the song of the birds ceased. He knew 
that the corn w^as growing ripe in the fields; he heard Daisy speak 
of the fruit that was ripening in the trees, and still he was unable 
to move. The autumn faded, and the winter set in. Lying there, 
he watched the snow fall, he heaid the wailing of the wind among 
the great forest trees; he knew that outside all was bleak and cold. 
It was not until the spring began to come that he could walk out, 
and much had happened before then. Lyincr there, often alone, 
thinking his own thoughts, indulging his own dreams, he' was bet- 
ter able to estimate his love for Lady May. He saw that it had in- 
deed been his life — that of his love slain, so cruelly slain, nothing 
remained to him; he saw that he had loved her with a devotion 
passing the love of men. He had staked his whole life on this on? 
issue, and it haa tailed. He felt little interest in getting well. What 
was he to do? He did not care to go out into the \yorkl and take 
his place in it again; the little room was a haven of rest. He won- 
dered himself that he could not, in some measure, forget her; every 
minute, sleeping or waking, her face was before him; every minute 
her voice sounded in his ears. Once he siartled Daisy; it was in 


BETWEEN TWO LOVES. 


51 


llie snmmer-time, Tvhen lie lay so very ill. She stood near the 
window, where the sunbeams tell on her, and seemed to crown her 
with gold; they brightened her fair hair and face until they made 
her look like the proud lady he had seen under the tight, with her 
golden hair and sliiuing gems. 

“Daisy! Daisy 1“ he cried, in a voice of sharp pain; “come 
away from there!” 

She looked up in wonder. 

“ Come away,” he repeated; do not stand there in the sunlight. 

1 — 1 can not bear it.” 

She was too gentle and patient to ask him wdiy. She thought he 
was irritable with long illness and great pain. She crossed the little 
room and came over to him. She had a sweet, simple fashion of 
speaking to him, as though he were a sick child who required hu* ’ 
moring. He was ashamed of himself when he fo^nd it soothed and 
comforted him, ^ 

“ i ou must take this, dear.” she would say, when he was disin- 
clined tor his medicine or food. 

She had a pretty fashion of taking his hand and stroking it until 
he complied. She was like a young mother with a suffering child 
— always sweet, always tender unci patient, always considerate of 
him, always thinking of him. He grew at last to rely entirely upon 
her. He became so accustomed to her, that he was uneasy^ when 
she was away from him; no one could do anything for him like 
Daisy; no one could make such broth, such tea, such soup; and 
Daisy, wlien it was time for him to take it, would kneel bv his side, 
telling him sweet, simple little incidents about the birds and the 
flowers, coaxing him to eal or to drink. Daisy never entered his 
room but that il seemed brighter for her coming. He liked to hear 
her talk; her voice was very sweet and low; it soothed him. Then, 
when he grew a little better — when the pain in some degree lessened, 
and his mind grew clear— he wanted something to occupy it. He 
had grown resigned to his fate; the sweetness and brightness of life 
were all over to him, but duty remained. Not that he considered 
he had any peculiar line of duty markecl out for him; hut he had an 
estate that required management, he had tenantry that required 
looking after. Dear heaven! how different his fate would have 
been had Lady May been true to him — had she Ireen less proud, less 
cruel — had they gone through life hand-in-hand. What would he 
not, in that case, have longed to achieve? — what w’ould he not have 
done? — where would his ambition have slopped? — what heights could 
lie not have climbed? It was all over, and life could give him noth- 
ing; he must endure it until it ended. Even then one of his sweet- 
est Hopes w\as ended. Those who loved each other always talked of 
meeting again in another world; he had no such hope; he could not 
say to himself that he wmuKl live his life lonely and well, hoping in 
another world to meet his lost love. He could not comfort himself 
as other people, by hoping to find in eternity what be had lost in 
time— it w^as all over for him. Then, wdien he could no longer en- 
dure those thoughts, he w^ould call Daisy; and Daisy, in the charm 
of her sweet, pure girlhood, would hasten to him. 

How many 'weary hours of pain she soothed and whiled away! 
How many lessons of gentleness and patience she preached to him, 


52 


TjETWEEK TWO LOVES. 


williout knowing it! Flow many dreary nights and dreary days she 
was like an angel ot light by his bedside! 

Then, when the w’orst of his illness was past, and he could take 
more interest in what was passing, he asked Daisy to read to him; 
and Daisy, with a puzzled look on her fair face, brought him the 
most cnrious collection ever beheld— not one of them, in his sense 
of the word, readable. ^ 

“ Is there no library here — no n^ns of getting books?” he asked 
in dismay; and Daisy told him, “ no; people round there made books 
of the trees and fields,” she fancied, ” tor there seemed no other.” 

“We will soon remedy that,” said Sir Clinton. “ Will you write 
for me?” 

The result ot the said letters came in the shape of two boxes, one 
filled with the works of the best authors of the day, which he pre- 
sented to Daisy ;ji^e other, a box from Mudie’s, with a well-selected 
assortment. 

Daisy looked up in bewildered amaze. 

‘‘ For me!” she said — ” all these books for me! It can not be 
possible.” Her delight was unbounded. ” But, Mr. Clifton,” she 
said, ” it is such a valuable present, how can 1 take it from you?” 

‘‘You deserve more than 1 can ever give you, Daisy,” he replied, 
languidly. ‘‘ Think what you have done lor me.” 

After that the dreary hours were all ended. Daisy was an insa- 
tiable reader; there were times when she spent whole nights in read- 
ing to him, when pain made him restless and sleepless. She never 
seemed to tire; her fair face would flush, her eyes grow bright, and 
she would not cease until her -voice failed her, and she could read 
no more. 

One morning— she had risen earli' — she had brought fresh, fra- 
grant flowers into his room; slie had made it the very picture of 
neatness, opened the window, and the perfumed morning air, mu- 
sical with the song of birds, had rushed in. She had made some tea, 
and then sat dowm to read to him; he had not slept all night with 
the intensity of his pain. She read, in that soft, cooing voice of 
hers, some of Owen Meredith’s poems, and it seemed to him that he 
■was listening to a strain ot sweetest music. 

Suddenly," the room was filled with a great flood of golden light — 
the sun had risen, and the window faced tlie east. Daisy raised her 
eyes, and in the glowing beauty of the heavens she forgot for one 
moment what she was reading. He looked at her sweet face. 

” What are you thinking of, Daisy?” asked Sir Clinton. 

She glanced at him with those pure, serene eyes, that had in them 
more of heaven than of earth. 

”1 was thinking,” she said, ‘‘how difterent my life has been 
since you came here. 1 knew little of these things, except by in- 
'stinct.” 

You knew little of what, Daisy?” he asked, gently. 

” Little of real beauty— 1 mean, that 1 did not know how it w^as 
put into words; 1 could feel it. 1 used to go out to watch the sun 
rise, to look at the dew on the grass, to listen to the birds. 1 liked 
to be near the great trees when the wind stirred them; 1 liked 
the sunset and the ^louds; but 1 did not quite understand why— 
no'w you have made it all clear. ” 


BETWEEN' TWO LOVES. 


58 


“ 1, Daisy?” he said. ” How have I made it clear?” 

‘‘ By the books you have given me,” she replied, ” an ' by all the 
strange, beautitul things you have told me. 1 did not know— 1 
hardly knew what poetry w^as, and 1 had no idea of such grand 
stories as 1 have been reaciing to you. It seems to me that 1 have 
been asleep— at least, that my mind had been asleep— until you 
came; and now it will never be_^e same again.” 

‘‘ Not even when I am gone, l^isy?” 

He did not know why he asked her the question; he saw a shadow 
ot pain come into her clear eyes. 

‘‘We will not talk about that,” she said. ” You can not go until 
you are well, and you are not well yet.” 

” 1 give you a great deal ot trouble, Daisy; you will be pleased 
when 1 go,” 

” Pleased!” she repeated; ‘‘ oh, no, Mr. Clifton. When you go, 
it will be as though the sun had set.” 

“You would miss me, then, Daisy? Well, I may thank Heaven 
some one cares for me. 1 shall not be friendless while you live, 
Daisy.” 

She looked at him in sheer wonder. 

FriendPss! You never can be that. You may not have wife 
or mother to love you, but you are not friendless; you are so good, 
so kind, so bonny, many must love you.” 

‘‘ ] fear not, Daisy,” he said, sadly; and she wondered at the pain 
in his voice. 

Many irust love him! — he who had so utterly failed in winning 
the one beautiful woman who was the whole world to him— the 
words seemed almost a mockery. Then Daisy resumed her reading; 
but Sir Clinton lay lost in thought. 

When he was able to walk slowly from one room to another, the 
spring was coming; then it became one of his greatest pleasures to 
go into the garden, where every sweet flower -that the poets bad 
loved seemed to grow. With Daisy’s help he could reach the garden 
chair; and there he would sit watching the crocuses, golden, blue, 
and white;-watching the snow-drops, the purple violets, sweet spring 
flowers of every hue; looking so sad, so heart-broken, that Mrs 
Erne, touched with compassion, would say: 

” Daisy, go to the poor gentleman, and try to cheer him.” 

No thouglit of danger for her daughter ever came across the sim- 
ple woman’s mind. He was a gentleman; her child a daughter of 
the people; there lay between them the great bridge of birth, and 
even, in the mother’s fancy, that was never crossed. 

Then Daisy would go to him, sit down by his side, soothe him, 
talk to him of the flowers, of the sweet springtide, of anything that 
came first into her mind. 

Sir Clinton had known many ladies, women ot birth and culture, 
polished, elegant, accomplished; he had always taken pleasure in 
the conversation of refined and well bred women; but this was 
something new to him. Daisy sometimes made mistakes in gram- 
mar; there was a slight trace ot provincialism in her accenj;, but her 
thoughts were pure and beautiful as the written words of poets. 

It was the first lime that the clear, pure mind of a young girl ha(t 
been unfolded to him; her reverence, her purity of thought and 


54 


BETWEEN TWO LOVES. 


woul, her simplicity, the innate beauty of her ideas— all filled him 
with admiration. 8o, watching the changing sUh s, (lie flowers, (lie 
green, spiinging leaves, they sat, talking in a dreamy, half mystical 
.krain of a Imndred things, forgetting the bridge between them; hut 
8ir Clinton never for oaie moment forgot Lady May, and life was 
never the same again for Daisy Erne. 



CHAPTER XV. 

SIR CLINTON’S RESOLVE. 

One fine spiing day Sir Clinton felt better; the sun shone 
warmly; the snow and the cold of winter were passed and gone; the 
birds were beginning to build their nests; the leaves were springing 
fresh and green; all nature was brightening under the influence of 
the change. Sir Clinton felt better; for the fust time, that morning 
he had walked a few steps alone; the doctor had told him that in a 
few weeks he would be able to travel — to go where he liked. Even 
with the crushing weight of his sorrow on him, the sweet spring day 
did its work— he was better. 

It seemed so long since he had heard any news of the outer world; 
no one knew where he was; he had not sent his address to any one; 
he had preferred bearing the shock of his illness and the shock of 
his grief alone. He did wonder at times what had happened in that 
outer w'orld, wherein he had once played so prominent a part; he 
felt some little desire to know what was going on; it seemed to him 
.almost as though be had been dead. He did not know what min- 
isters w’ere in or out; he had not heard any news of any kind, 
whether there was peace or war, prosperity or adversity, and some 
human interest awoke in his heart at last. 

Mrs. Erne was going to send to the country town for things that 
were needed, and he asked her to get some papers, writing down 
the names. If Mrs. Erne had been less simple, she must have 
knowm from the names of those papers that Sir Clinton belonged to 
the exclusive class of society. 

They came: it was evening then, and Daisy had (rimmed the 
lamps in the little parlor. 

“ Shall 1 read them to you, Mr. Clitton?” she asked, “ or will 
you read yourself?” 

He thanked her, hut preferred reading to himself, and Daisy left 
^him alone. He opened the papers with a zest that was new to him. 

“Poor old world!” he thought to himself; “nothing gives one 
such a good idea of it as being out of it for a time.” 

There it was, ** Political Intelligence,” a leading article on Rus- 
sia, letters on different matters of public interest, news in high life. 
Sir Clinton breathed a deep sigh of relief as he read; after all, it was 
something to belong to this wicked, weary, brilUimt world. Sud- 
denly his attention was caught by a paragraph in one corner—” Ap- 
proaching Marriage in High Life.” It said Very briefly, hut long 
enough <or him, that a marriage was rumored as being about to take 
place between the beautiful, accomplished J^ady J>IaLy Trevlyn and 
the Duke of Rosecarn. 


BETWEEN TWO LOVES. 


55 

He bad been lyinp: tor many months on a sick-bed ; he had been 
almost at the gates ot death from weakness and pain; he had lived 
apart from all who knew him that he might forget her; he had 
sworn to himself, over and over again, that his love was dead — slain 
by her coldness and her cruelty,' her shameful pride; he had be- 
lieved that he was dead to all emotion; yet, as he read this, his 
love so long repressed, his anger so long kept down, rose in a hot, 
passionate torrent, sweeping everything before him. He was like 
one bereft of ids reason; that mighty love he believed dead had 
surged again through heart and soul, had filled his whole being, 
had woke every pulse to the burning sling ot passion. It had mas- 
tered him again. Standing there, with his right hand raised to curse 
her, he could have kissed the ground at her feet. He had never 
loved her more madly, more wildly, than now, when he knew that 
she' was going to marry another. lie loved, yet haled her; he 
cursed, yet blessed her; he was mad with anger, ytt mad with love. 
He was to be pitied if ever man was. At one moment he thought 
it W'as easier to slay her than to know she was really another man’s 
wife. Then helaughed himself to scorn. Why should lie care? — hehaa 
given her up of his own free will. AYhat could it matter to him? — 
she was false as Judas. He believed that she had id ways intended 
to marry the duke; she had only used him as a kind of dupe, she 
had only trifled with him, broken his heart, driven him mad for 
pastime; she had marred his life for her own amusement. Then 
w'ould come a swift, sudden revulsion. Perhaps he had been to 
blame; he had been jealous, hasty. She was so lovely, so graceful, 
it w’^as no wonder that men admired her. He was torn with differ- 
ent emotions — love, jealousy, anger swayed him alternately. Then 
he said to himself how foolisb he was, that the past was buried; all 
his emotion was wasted, his love was dead. Lady IVIay w^as less to 
him tlian any otlier woman, and why grieve over her? Tiie memory 
of her, as he had seen her last, under the light of the lamps, her 
w'hite hands raised to repulse him, her beautiful face all giowung 
with pride and scorn, the light of her eyes, the gleam of her jewels, 
the sheen of her golden hair, all dazzling him — how imperially fair, 
how royally beautiful; but how proud, how cold to him! 

Sliould he live, and see her make that hated rival happy in her 
love? Should he live to see her another man’s wife— she w’hom he 
loved with so loyal a love? A fierce and hot impulse came over 
him, the impulse that leads men to murder, lu that supreme 
moment ot anguish and despair, it would have fared ill with the 
Duke of Rosecarn had he been near 

“ Ifhad all been planned,” he said to himself, ” to win her from 
him— the plays, the charades, they had all been arranged foi that 
one purpose. Of course, it was only natural a great heiress should 
many a duke.” 

Then came the reaction, alw^ays so. terrible to bear. He had lost 
her, for all time and all eternity— she was lost to him! • 

Lost to him ! Never again, while the sun shone or the sea rolled 
— never, wLile thelilue heavens stretched out above him, w'ould she, 
the woman he loved so dearly, be anything to him again! He had 
looked in her face, held her hand, lor the last time. Lost to him! 
And as the words went home to him, with a mighty pang such as 


56 


BETWEEN TWO LOVES, 


Vio had never known before, a terrible cry came from his lips, and 
he sank, almost fainting, in his chair. 

Daisy heard it, and hastened to him. He was lying back in his 
chair, his fac& was white as death, great drops on his brow; his 
hands had fallen by his side, Daisy ran to him, with a little cry; 
she thought it was some terrible ph3^sical pain — perhaps that he had 
injured his ankle — that he had hurt himself. He had always been 
an object of solicitude to her; she had tended him as, years ago, 
she tended the wounded birds she found in the woods. She knelt 
down by his side. 

“ What is the matter, dear?” asked Daisy. ” 1 heard you cry 
out. You have hurt your ankle — you have done something to hurt 
yourself. What is it?” 

The pure, sweet face bending over him, the lender e3'^es raining 
down deepest pity and compassion on him, the kindly voice sooth- 
ing as though he were a grieving child— all touched him as lie had 
never been touched before. He laid his head on Daisy’s shoulder, 
and wept passionate, bitter tears — tears that did not shame his man- 
hood 

A new, strange dignity seemed to fall over Daisy. It was a man 
weeping those bitter tears, weeping with deep-drawn, passionate 
sobs, that shook his whole frame. She knew all words were use- 
less, but she knell by him in mute, sweet sympathy, until the pas- 
sion of his grief abated. She saw then that it was not physical pain, 
as she had believed at first — men do not cry for that; the cause of 
his tears was anger, harder to bear. 

She showed her sympathy by kneeling there in silence, waiting 
for him to speak; then, at last, he raised his head. 

“Daisy,” he said, gently, “1 am ashamed of myself. 1 had a 
great trouble once, 3'’ouknow, when3mu found me, and that trouble 
came home to me to-night. It forced me to shed the first tears I have 
shed since it happenedT” 

She made no reply, save by stroking his hand, wondering much 
in her own mind what had brought his sorrow so forcibly before him 
to-night. 

Hours after he had left the little parlor, Daisy sat pondering on 
what it could be. She wondered if anything in the newspaper had 
disturbed him— he might have seen there the death of some dear 
friend. Daisy took the paper and read it through. Surel3'' nothing 
there could apply to him. She read the “ Approaching ^Marriage 
in High Lite,” but innocent Daisy never dreamed “ the lovely and 
accomplished Lady Ma3’’ ” had anything to do with their guest. 
Then she dismissed it from her thoughts. Men had many sources 
of sorrow; it he did not like to tell her his, he had, doubtless" some 
good reason for it. Daisy never forgot that scene; it made her 
kinder than ever to him; she watched his face as a child watches 
its mother; if she saw it darkening with thought or growing pale, 
she left all other occupations to read to him. 8 he fancied, too, that 
there was a change in him; he had grown more thoughtful; he 
rarel3’^ smiled, even when she was reading his favorite authors. 
There were times w’hen he never heard one word; times when she 
asked him questions, and he never answered them; times when he 
looked so utterly wretched that Daisy’s heart ached for him. 


BETWEEN TWO LOVES, 


His troiible seemed to luive grown harder to him since he lead 
that notice ot her marriage. In his desperation a strange idea was 
gradually unfolding itself before him; he would never resume liis 
place in the world; he would live out the remainder of his life in 
this little cottage, or in some other like it; he would forswear friend- 
ship, love, ease, wealth, luxury; he wmutd live a hermit’s life, con- 
tent with his books. That morbid idea seemed to relieve him, dwell- 
ing on it eased his pain. Perhaps when she found she had driven 
him from the living world of men, she would repent ot her falsity 
and repent of her pride. 

jMen disappointed in love make strange resolves; this one pleased 
Sir Clinton — he would keep himself right away from the great 
world. It should never be in the power of the Duchess of Hosecarn 
to show her grandeur before him. She should never show her 
power over him by smiling in proud, serene indifference wliile she 
held out her hand to him; he would not pain himself by looking 
at her again. So, lest he should meet her, lest he should meet 
those who would pity him, triumph over him, he would keep away 
from the great world. He ivould let his money accumulate, and 
found some charity wuth it. He 'would only take what was sufficient 
for him to live upon. 

If, after a short time, he found that life at the cottage did not sat- 
isfy him, then he would go abroad — not to those places that English 
travelers most affected, but m some part ot France 'where English 
feet seldom trod; or, if he chose, he could go to America — the 
]Sew World— and forget all that had happened to him heie in tlie 
old. 

Having once formed , this idea, he dwelt on it with brooding, 
silent satisfaction— it solaced him; it seemed to him that, in thus 
punishing himself, he was in some measure avenging himself on the 
world in general. 

They asked him one day, when sending to the county town, if he 
■would like to have some newspapers. He said no with such pas- 
sionate vehemence that Mrs. Erne looked at him in wonder. 

No more news for him; he had read enough; he had finished with 
the false, wicked, brilliant world; he had no 'wish to read the glories 
of that marriage — the marriage of the woman he loved with the 
rival he hated! 


CHAPTER XVI. 

“to wait upon you.” 

They were sitting under the apple- blossoms; the southern 'wdnd 
had stirred them, and they were falling all around; some ot them, 
pink and white, lay on Daisy’s dress; she held them in her hand. 
She was looking up with laughing eyes into Sir Clinton’s face. 

“ Tell you the history of my life, Mr. Clifton?” she said. “ Why, 
there is no history in it,” 

“ Every one has a story,” said Sir Clinton. 

“ 1 have none,” replied Daisy; “ my biography could be written 
in verj" few words.” 

“ Have you ever lived in any other place but this?” he asked. 


58 


BETWEEN TWO LOVES. 


“No; ir.y lather was head keeper in the woods here when he 
married my mother. She lived in the county town close 
Woodburn. He brouf^ht her home here, and she has never left the 
house since.” 

“ Then you have not seen much of the world, Daisy?” 

“ No; i)ut 1 have not missed it— 1 have been very happy without 
it.” 

“ I have read of a man without a shadow,” said Sir Clinton; 
“ now I know a girl without a story.” 

“ 1 may have a story some day,” said Daisy, laughingly. “If 
ever 1 do, 1 will tell it to you. Was there ever a man without a 
shadow, Mr. Clifton?” 

“ I can not say. Daisy, 1 should like to change places with you 
just for once; 1 should like to have lived as you have done — in the 
world, but not of it. So you w’ere born here?” 

“Yes; 1 was born and have lived here; I suppose that 1 shall 
die here. I see no prospect of an}'^ change. My father died when 
1 was quite a little girl. He had been such a faithful servant to the 
owner of this estate. Sir Henry Woodley, that he gave my mother a 
pension, and told her she might live here for the remainder of her 
life. J went to Woodburn, to ayoung ladies’ school, tor four years, 
but 1 do not think,” continued Daisy, wdth charming candor, “ that 
1 have learned very much. That is all my story.” 

“ It is sweet and simple as a pastoral storjq Daisy. How old are 
you?” 

“Oh,” replied Daisy, with conscious jnide, “ 1 am older than 1 
look; lam nearly nineteen.” 

“ And you have no companions— no friends?” he continued. 

“None that 1 care for,” she replied. “1 knew some girls at 
Woodburn; but their fathers kept shopST^’ said innocent Daisy, 

“ and they considered themselves very much above me.” 

Which view’ of social position amused Sir Clinton so that he 
laughed a hearty, genuine laugh — the first she had ever heard from 
his lips. Daisy looked at him with a grave reproach in her tender 
eyes. 

“ How cruel of you to lairgh, Mr. Clifton! 1 assure you it was 
a trouble to me.” 

“ So the shopkeepers’ daughters would not associate with you?” 
he said, looking down at the lovely face and graceful figure with a 
strange smile. 

“ No,” replied Daisy, frankly; “ and 1, in my turn, did not care 
to know the girls in a class below my own — that is, if woodkeepers’ 
daugliters have a class— have they, Mr. Clifton?” 

She spoke so seriously Sir Clinton laughed again, 

“ A very charming class,” he said; “and, Daisy, as you know 
so few, tell mo, has any one ever told you you were very pretty?” 

“No,” she replied, with a pleased, bright blush; “no one ever 
told me that,” 

“ But,” he persisted, “ do you know it?” 

“ Well,” said Daisy, “1 have thought sometimes that my face 
was pleasant— nice to look at; but 1 did not know that it w^as really 
what people call pretty.” 


liETWEEJJ^ TWO LOVES. 59 

“ ll is very pretty, Daisy. It you were iu what people call the 
world, you would Imd that it was thought a great cleat ot.” 

“ 1 do not ihiuk 1 should care much about that,” replied Daisy; 
” but, all the same, 1 am glad that 1 am pretty. Do you like people 
that are pretty, Mr. Clifton?” 

” AVithout doubt 1 did like them once upon a time,” he replied. 

‘‘ And why not now?” asked Daisy, with a look of great disap- 
pointment— so great that he could not help seeing it. 

“ Why do children tire of sweets? Why do all men tire, in time, 
of everythiiiir?” 

“ Do men tire ot everything?” asked Daisy, solemnly; ” even of 
their own sisters and their mothers?” 

” I never had a sister, and my mother died so long ago 1 can not 
answer the question; but 1 know they tire ot everything else.” 

“ That is a great pity,” said Daisy; ” girls are not like that. 1 
should never tire of n\y mother, my home, or you.” 

“You are different to most girls, Daisy — at least to the girls 1 
have known.” 

She looked up at him with eager eyes. 

” 1 have often thought,” she said, ‘‘ that 1 should like to ask you 
if you ever liked any one very much. My mother said one day that 
you gave her the impressiou of a man who had loved some one very 
dearly who died.” 

” Did your mother say that, Daisy? She is right. 1 did love 
some oue once, with all my heart and soul— better than my life and 
all that it held — some one who died.” 

Dais}’- listened reverently. This, then, was the sorrow which had 
driven liini mad, which made him always sad and thoughtful. Al«, 
w-ell, tor such a sorrow as this there was no cure. 

“And did the one whom you loved so much love you, Mr. 
Clifton?” 

” "We will not talk about it now,” he replied. “ What are 3 'ou 
going to do with all the rest ot your life, i^aisy?” 

She laughed — a happy little lauirli of perfect content. 

“ 1 shall wait upon you,” she repliecl; ” 1 shall read to you, and 
watch youi face to see when you grow sad; 1 shall get all you want, 
and always have everything ready tor you.” 

‘‘ But, Daisy, 1 shall not always be an invalid,” he said. 

The pel feet content of her tace changed ever so little. 

‘‘No, you will not always be an invalid; but you will always 
want some one to wait on you,” said Daisy. 

Sir Clinton looked earnestly at her. 

‘‘1 know all your wants now,” she said, ‘‘and 1 understand 
your tastes so well; no one could ever wail on you so well as 1 
can.” 

”1 know that, Daisy,” he said; ‘‘but you see there is a great 
difterence between us. A strong man like me does not need wait- 
ing on; and then, even if 1 did require it, it would not be from such 
delicate, gentle hands as yours.” 

Daisy began to look alarmed. 

” i— 1 thought you would always like me to w'ait on you,” she 
said. 

‘‘ My dear Daisy, you are very simple and very sweet; you do not 


60 


BETWEEN TWO LOVES. 


understand, I can see; the ways oi the world are all new to you, 
there is a certain thing called etiquette— you know nothing of 
that.” 

“ No,” replied Daisy, undauntedly; ” 1 do not.” 

‘‘ And etiquette will prevent you from waiting on me, wdien 1 get 
strong and well,” he said; ” although it does not prevent it no tv.” 

” Then etiquette is very cruel,” said Daisy; ” and 1 do not like 
it.” 

” Few people do. That can not be the end of the story, Daisy; 
we must find a different termination. Now, for instance, if some 
benevolent fairy gave 3 'ou a nice fortune, and one of the 3 '^oung 
farmers round here asked you to marry him, would not that doV” 

“No; 1 should not like that at all. 1 should not like to be mar- 
ried, Mr. Clifton.” 

” Then what would you like to do?” he asked. 

‘‘To wait upon you,” she replied; and he smiled again more 
gravely this time. 

‘‘We are arguing in a circle,” he said; ‘‘ that can not be.” 

‘‘ 1 shall think of something else, then,” said Daisy; ‘‘ but what- 
ever it is must be for you. Now you have been out long enough, 
and my mother has some famous soup; you must come in and have 
it.” 

‘* We will finish our argument another time, then, Daisy; you 
shall think it over and find out what you would like best. Imagine 
that some fairy is coming to ask you w’hat you like best— w’hat you 
would prefer out of all the world — then tell me, as though I were a 
fairy.” 

She had been so good to him, so kind to him, that he had pleased 
himself by thinking he would give her, not a large fortune, but a 
sufficient one to make her a desirable wife for any of the y'^oung 
f aimers of the neighborhood. Bui, almost to his wonder, Daisy 
looked up at him again, and said; 

‘‘ 1 know well enough wdiat I should prefer from all the world — 
it would be to wait upon you.” 

This time Sir Clinton did not smile. There was to him something 
almost painful in this devoted attachment to himself. He never 
dreamed that it was anything more than a girlish liking, such as 
she must naturally feel for anything she had tended, cared for, and 
nursed as she had done him. Yet he^ felt sorry, too, that she liked 
him so well. In the scheme of life which he had laid down for 
himself no woman bore any part; he would have none of them. He 
said to himself that he had learned liis bitter lesson, learned it t\’ell, 
and was not to suffer again. Of course it was only’- a preliy, 
romantic, idydlic kind of idea that Daisy had of alway^s waiting on 
him, but it disturbed him a little— he wished it had not been so; 
and when Daisy, an hour afterw’ard, came as usual to offer her serv- 
ices -with book and pen, he looked gravely abstracted. He wanted 
peace, and he said to himself, cynically, that where there was tlm 
love or liking of any w’oman there was no peace. 

The next scene in the tragedy was that he grew tired of the dull, 
quiet monotony of the cottage. At first it had been like paradise— 
a peaceful refuge from trouble, a haven of rest and peace. He had 
been content to watch the sky, to listen to the birds, to note the 


HETWEE]!^ TWO LOVES. 


61 

growth of the tlowers, to make nature his book, and to read it with 
attention. That was when his strength tailed him, and he felt ill, 
weak, spiritless. Now he was able to walk — the pure country air 
invigorated him; he was able to walk without pain, the strength of 
his manhood was returning to him, and he could not rest much 
longer. 

J le had no desire to go back into the world—the great cruel world 
of fashion— but he wanted change: he would go abroad and seek it 
there, lie would fain have traveled through deserts where human 
faces and human voices would never pursue him. He had no long 
ing for his kind, no wish for society; but the desires of life, its 
vague wishes, dreams, and hopes, were all awakening within him. 
The lime had come when he could no longer content himself at 
Woodside. 

He made many pleasing pictures to himself how he would make 
]\Irs. Eine happy for life; he would settle an annuity on her that 
sliould place her above all want; and to Daisy — gentle, graceful 
Daisy — he would give a fortune; then, in the years to come, if ever 
he should return from his travels, he would come to visit them. A 
pleasant picture, but it was never to be realized. 


CHAPTER XVII. 

SAD NE’WS FOR DAISY. 

Daisy Erne had never known what life meant until now. The 
course of a peaceful brook in the depths of a shady nook had not 
been more calm or more serene. As she told Sir Clinton, she had 
no story. She had been born in that simple cottage at Woodside; 
her happy, innocent childhood had been spent in the woods; her 
friends and playmates were the flowers and birds; she had known 
no others. Her father had been kind and indulgent. While he lived, 
Daisy made little expeditions to different woods and forests. He 
taught her all his little lore — the names of the trees, the diflerent 
habits of diflerent birds, the names and the nature of flowers. He 
taught her, after his own fashion, to read the changing lace of the 
skies; she knew where the birds built; she knew what flowers came 
out at the different seasons. Then, when he died, even those little 
])leasures ceased, and Daisy grew up pure as an angel by her 
mother’s side. Nothing could be more simple than that life. Mrs. 
Erne had the pension Sir Henry Woodley allowed her. She in- 
creased her income by the washing of lace, in which Daisy also ex- 
celled; the}' had a garden and an orchard, the proceeds of which 
were sold at Woodburn. They worked hard and paid their way, 
which ]\Irs. Erne thought the grandest thing in life. In summer 
they rose with the sun and worked until it set. Then, when Daisy 
was ten, her mother sent her to what she proudly called “ a lady’s 
school,” where she went lor four years. There she learned all there 
was to be taught, but she made no friends. She came liome con- 
tented enough, willing to believe with her inothei that she knew all 
that was needful. 

The pretty, quiet home life began then. Daisy made her own 


62 


BETWEEN TWO LOVES. 


world at home. She grew up beautifui, pure, and good; innocent 
as a child; utterly ignorant of ihe world and its ways; reverent, 
pious, and simple. Into this dull gray life the coming of Sit Clin- 
ton had been like a flash of glorious sunlight — how many worlds 
(lid he open to her? He taught her poetry and romance; lie changed the 
whole face of the world for her. Slie saw the meaning of a thousand 
things she had never known before; she saw new beauty everywhere; 
she had no idea that she loved him with the love that was her doom. 
She only knew that there was no life away from him; that all 
the light and glory of the world was centered in him. He was so 
handsome, so unlilie everyone she had seen, no wonder Daisy loved 
him. She did so, after a fashion, the fiist moment she saw him. 
She called him bonny, and talked of him in her child-like fashion. 

It had ended in a love that was pitiful in its intensity. 

If he had spent llie remainder of his life there, all would have 
been well. Daisy would have been quite content to wait upon him; 
she desired nothing more. It was the mention of his going that 
changed, as it were, the worshiping attention of the child into the . 
passionate love of the woman. For Sir Clinton’s mind was made^ 
up at fast. He w^as well, strong enough to go, and go he must. He 
had formed his plans. He would go to France — to the southern 
coast — and live in the land of the olives and the vine. He w ould 
go to Paris first, as he w'anted a large sum of money, and his 
bankers could so easily send it there, d’hen he would choose his 
future residence in some almost Unknown place. 

When he quite decided he never forgot the day; it was in the 
middle of June, a w'arm, sunn 3 ^ fragrant day, when the biids were 
singing, and the roses in bloom. Mrs. Erne was busied in the 
garden gathering strawberries for him to eat with the rich, sweet 
cream. Daisy satin the pretty little porch, gathering togetlier the 
falling leaves of the red roses to make a pot-pourri after the true 
country fashion. (Sir Clinton saw her there, and went to her in the 
preoccupation of his thoughts. During the last few days he had quite 
forgotten Daisy’s declaration of vvaiituig always to w^ait upon him. 

He w'as attached to her in a gratelul, kindly fashion; he thought 
her one of the purest, loveliest, Bweetest girls he had ever met, far 
above her station; lie had the kindest intentions toward lier; he 
meant to flower her, to be her friend for life. As for flirting with 
her, he had never even dreuued of such a thing; he had never 
spoken to her or looked at her in a way that he ivould not have 
done to a sister of his own. He looked upon her as a kind, good 
girl, who had amused him through a long, tiresome sicUuess. He 
had no Uioughl of her which he would not have told to the whole 
w^<)rld, and he no more dreamed of Daisy’s deep love than did her 
own mother. 

He went to her, thinking how fair and graceful she looked, her 
pure, sweet face bending over the roses, lie took up some of the 
leaves in his lingers. 

“ What are you doing this for, Daisy?” he asked. 

” For you,” she replied, (quickly. 

‘‘ For me? What am 1 to do with all these rose-leaves?” 

She laughed, and Sir Clinton ahvays liked Daisy’s laugh, it was 
so clear, so silvery, so sw^eet. 


BETWEEN) TVrO LOVES. 


03 


“You know the two pink vases in your room that have li<]s to 
them; 1 shall till tliein will) rose-leaves, and they will make a pleasant 
perfume tor you all the year.” 

“ But, Daisy,” he said, quietly, ” 1 shall not be here all the year. 
1 have been idle long enough; 1 must work.” 

“ You can work here,” she said, quickly. 

lie shook his head gravely. 

” This is merely lotus-eating, Daisy; there is nothing here for me 
to do.” 

“ Why need you work?” asked Daisy^ “ You are very happy^ as 
yon are.” 

” Why did God give me brains but to use them? If any one had 
prophesied to me two years ago that 1 could live as 1 have lived lor 
the last ten months, 1 could not have believed it.” 

fie saw the laughter die from her tace, the light from her eyes. 
She laid the roses down on the seat beside her. 

‘‘ \ou do not mean, Mr. Clinton, that you are really going 
away?” 

He did not understand the expression of her face; it was as one 
who waits a sentence of life or death. 

”1 must go, Daisy,” he said. ‘‘1 shall ask you to spend to- 
morrow in helping me arrange my bo(dvS and papers.” 

She Stood up then, the rose-leaves falling all round her. 

” You are going,” she said, ” and you wish me to help you. 1 
can not, I can not; 1 could sooner die!” 

” Why, Daisy?” he asked, wmnderingly^ 

‘‘ Because 1--1 nev^er thought you would go. 1 do not know what 
to do — life is not the same as it was. You must not go, j\lr. Clit- 
ton.” 

lie thought it the child-like sorrow of a child for one who had 
been kind to her. 

” 1 know 3’-ou will miss me, Daisy,” he said; ‘‘ 1 shall miss you 
very much, but 1 shall see you again.” 

Love tor tlie proud lady who bad slighted him blinded him to all 
signs of love in another woman’s face. He saw that she grew very 
pale, and her lips sprung apart with a long, quivering sigh. 

” 1 shall see you again, Daisy,” be said. ” I am going abroad, 
and shall be absent many year5. When 1 return, you will be one 
ot the first 1 shall come to see.” 

Ko w’ord or sound came from the white, parted lips. 

‘•1 shall hope to lind you very happy, Daisy,” he said. ” You 
will be married then, without doubt; hut you will always find room 
for me by the fire-side, wMll you not?” 

There wuis something tragic in the look she turned upon him. 

“1 shall not be happy; 1 shall not marry— 1 do not want to 
marry; hui: if you go, I shall die.” 

And, without another word, Daisy left the porch. Sir Clinton look- 
ing after her with wonder in l)is face. 

Poor child! poor Daisy! she will be sure to miss me, 1 have been 
here so long.” 

He (lid not know that Daisy w^ent to her room, and had fallen 
there, white and senseless, on the floor. 


64 


BETWEEN" TWO LOVES. 


CHAPTER XVlll 
“no kino so grand as he.” 

He cireamed so little ot the truth, that, before he saw her again, 
he had forgotten all that had passed. He did not remember what 
she said; the only impression left upon his mind was that he had 
told Daisy he was going, and she was to help him in his packing. 
He saw her again, some hours afterward; she was standing in the 
kitchen then, busy with some ripe red fruit, and as he went to speak 
to her, lie started back in wonder and amaze. Was this Daisy? 
The girl looked up at him with a white, w’an face, devoid of all 
light and all color, with large, shadowed eyes, full of pain, with 
quivering lips that would not be still. What had happened to her? 
Bir Clinton felt quite concerned. 

“ Daisy, are you ill?” he asked. 

“ Yes,"l am ill,” she replied, quitting the kitchen as she spoke. 
Mrs. Erne turned to Sir Clinton. 

“ 1 cr.n not think what has come over her, Mr. Clifton,” she said. 
“ I am frightened to look at her. 1 did hear that the fever was very 
bad at Woodburn; surely it can not be that Daisy is taking it; she 
looks awfully ill.” 

“ You must nurse her up; 1 will send some good port wine for 
her. Poor Daisy, how well she nursed mel” 

Mrs. Erne thanked him with her old-fashioned courtesy, so little 
did they understand the kind of fever that was burning the girl's 
heart away. 

Sir Clinton was to know, though. He went to Woodburn, hav- 
ing several matters to arrange. He had not settled any time tor re- 
turning, and, having many little commissions to execute, the 
twilight had faded into night before he returned. 

There 'was never any fear of robbers at Woodside— the cottage 
door was closed, not locked ; he opened it gently, lest Daisy should 
lie asleep and he should disturb her. The sound of violent, pas- 
sionate weeping struck him with wonder; it came from his own 
room, too, and the door that led to it was half open. He had no 
thought ot listening, but he drew near silentbL and he never forgot 
the picture. 

Daisy sat by the window, her head laid on the window-sill, in the 
very abandonment of sorrow; her rich brown hair, all unfastened, 
lay like a veil around her. Bhe was weeping with such violent, 
passionate sobs, it seemed as though each one would rend the delicate 
frame. Mrs. Erne stood by her. 

“ Come, Daisy,” she was saying, “ we must not stay here. This 
room is ready for Mr. Clifton now; he may return at any moment 
— we must not stay here. ” 

Daisy only answered with her sobs; then he saw her fling her 
arras up with a great cry. 

“ Oh, mother, mothei !” she said; “ I shall die if he goes. 'What 
am 1 to do? 1 can not bear it!” 


BETWEEN TWO EOVES. G5 

“ He must go some time, child; as well now as another,” was the 
calm reply. 

‘‘ 1 shall die,” moaned Daisy. “ Oh, mother, my life will never be 
the same!” 

‘‘ 1 shall begin to wish he had never come, if you grieve in this 
way, Daisy; though he has been a kind friend to us.” 

” His kindness has killed me,” said Daisy, ” for 1 can never live 
when he lias gone away.” She sat silent for some minutes; then, 
with a laugh lar more pitiful than her tears, she said: ” Mother, do 
you remember the song you used to sing, and 1 thought it so foolish V 
It begins: 

“ ‘ Oh, mother, mother, make my bed. 

And spread the milk-white sheets.’ 

It was not so foolish, after all. 1 could say just the same words 
now. I feel as though there was nothing left for me but to lay me 
down and die.” 

” But that girl in the song was mourning for her lover,” said 
simple Mrs. Erne, ” and Mr. Clifton is no lover of yours.” 

“No,” said Daisy; “but, all the same, I Jove him, mother. I 
love him with all my heart. 1 love him so dearly that, when he 
has gone away, 1 shall turn my face to the wall and die.” 

” But, Daisy, ni}’^ dear, that is not right, you know.” 

“ Right or wrong, 1 can not help it, mother. IMy heart has gone 
out of me, and gone to him. My heart, my soul, my mind, all love 
him; and, when he is gone, I shall die.” 

Mrs. Erne was horror-stricken. 

” Why, Daisy,” she cried, “that is lover’s love; and a modest 
girl should never be the first to apeak of it. Has Mr. Clifton ever 
talked to you about love?” 

” No, never. I do not know what lover’s love is. 1 only know 
that my life seems to have grown into his life; but he will never 
know it. He will go away, and never know that 1 broke my heart lor 
love of him. Oh, mother, mother! you are a woman grown, and I 
am a child— teU me how to bear it” 

But simple Mrs. Erne was paralyzed with fear. ’J’his passional e 
outburst from her quiet, simple, pla 3 ’^ful Daisy alarmed her. 

"He is so handsome, so bonny, so kind. I never saw a king; 
but no king could be so royal, so grand as he is. How am 1 to live, 
to look at these rooms that will be haunted by his face? 1 can not. 
Before he has been gone one week, mother, 1 shall be in my grave.” 

” Daisy, it is too dreadful; you must not say such things. Why, 
child, I never even talked to your father in that fashion.” 

” Perhaps jmu did not love him so much. See, mother, if I 
could, 1 would be like the girl in the poem; 1 would disguise myself 
as a page, and go all over the world with him, wailing on him, con- 
tent never to he known, if 1 might only look at Ids face and listen 
to his voice. 1 have never thought of any life without him.” 

‘‘lam sure, Daisy, that if I had dreamed of this, the poor gentle- 
man should never have entered these doors. But, whatever you do, 
child, you must not let him know it — you must not see him again.” 

And Daisy sobbed again. 

” There is no one like him in the wide world, mother, and he is 


P/rWEEK TAVO LOVES. 


6G 

going away — going cabroaci. ]Te says lie shall coine to see ns when 
lie returns; but he will never see me.” 

” Why, Daisy, if he were your lover, you could not take it more 
to heart.” 

” 1 do not want a lover; but, oh, it he would let ms go with, him, 
to wait on him, to be near him — 1 w'ould sooner that than be 
crowned a queen!” 

‘‘Bless the child!” cried Mrs. Erne, quite aghast; and then she 
did not know what else to say— this kind ot thing was be 3 a)nd her. 
” It is a most unfortunate thing, Daisy. 1 ought to have known 
better, perhaps, than to have left a young girl like you so inuch 
with any gentleman; but 1 never thought you would be so foolish,” 

‘‘ Wh}- am 1 foolish'? Who could help it'? lam not foolish; [ 
am wise. It is true wisdom to love what is highest and best. Oh, 
mother, do not scold me— do not say one cross word! 1 shall not 
the first one who has died for love. ” 

Then again she wept, so bitterly; and he saw the moon shining on 
her fair hair and white neck. 

“ Come, Daisy,” said Mrs. Erne, weeping for sympathy; ‘‘you 
must not stay here. Mr. Clifton will soon be back now; come to 
your owm room.” 

Then, suddenly waking to a sense of wdiat w'as passing around 
him. Sir Clinton turned away. He would rot for the whole world 
that they should find him there. He w’^ent away silently as he had 
entered, and stood out in the garden under the stars alone— alone, 
with a dazed, bewildeied contusion in his breast. Daisy — sweet, 
gentle Daisy —was going to die for him! She loved him so ■well 
that she only cared to die when he should be gone. 

He stood bewildered at first by the shock, hardly able to believe 
it. Why, he had never looked on the girl with a lover’s eye at all 
— such a thing had been furthest from his thoughts; and she had 
grown so devoted to him. ” At least,” he thought to himself, 
‘‘ that is a sincere lov^e; it is neither for my rank nor my title — si»e 
knows nothing ot them — it is for myself that she loves me.” 

VVas there a man living who vvould not be proud ot such a thing — 
to be loved tor himself? Who would not be touched by it, the pi re, 
deep, sweet love of a young girl’s heart? He was touched; he re 
membered his owm grief and pain, his own torture and despair — how 
he had suffered because he loved even to madness one wmo did not 
love him; and now Daisy, sweet Daisy, with her lovely, dimpled 
face and pure, tender heart, had the same to endure. He could not 
bear to think of it. Daisy had been so good to him, so kind to 
him; through dreary days and nights she had nursed him with such 
unwearied devotion. So she had learned to love him; her heart 
had gone out to him, in her words. WTio was he that this pure, 
guileless girl should give him the wealth ot her love? His eyes 
grew dim with tears— he. who had been duped, deceived, driven 
mad by the light falsehood of a woman. 

What difference between them — this daughter of the people, so 
fair and gentle, and the daughter of a dozen earls! The one loved 
him so dearly that she declared she must die w^hen the light ot his 
presence w\as withdrawal; the other had toyed with him wdiile it 
suited her purpose, then had drlVen him aw’ay in despair. If Lady 


BETWEEN- TWO LOVES. 67 

May had tor him but a lithe ot the love that Daisy had, then indeed 
would his life have been blessed to him. 

lie must go— it was very sad. very pitiful, but, all the same, he 
must go. Then he tried to picture to himselt how he should feel 
if, fai away in suimy France, he heard the news of Daisy’s death— 
Daisy dead for love of him! Why did love always go by the rule 
ot contrary? He had loved Lady May— she imd no love to give 
him; now Daisy loved him, and what had he to give her? 

Then— he could not tell how or why— an idea came to him; per- 
haps the stars or tlie night wind inspired him, perhaps the sound of 
Daisy’s sobbing touched him; one thing was quite clear, the idea 
came— why not marry Dauy? His life, so fur as all its prospects 
were concerned, had ended; Lady May was, by this time, another 
man’s wife. In the wide world no one cared for him except Daisy; 
could he let Daisy die because she loved him? Mairiage would 
bring him no happiness; he did not look for it, did not want it; but 
it would save Daisy’s life. 

He could tell her frankly he had no love to give her, that his 
heart was dead; but if it would make her happy to spend her life 
wiih him, it should be so. 

Then again he recoiled from it; his whole heart and lore had been 
Lady May’s; could he call another woman wife?— could he bear to 
say kind words, to hold a woman’s hand in his? Ko. Pie revolted 
from the idea. He had never loved any woman except Lady May, 
and she alone could be his wife. 

So Daisy, with her foolish, wild, impulsive love, must die. Poor 
child! he could see her in the moonlijrlit, sobbing her heart out for 
him. The only woman he had ever loved gave him up to be a 
rluchess. The only woman who had ever loved him died of her 
love! 

The contrast struck him; it must not be; better that he should 
suffer than Daisy die. She was not wdiat the world would call a 
fitting wile for him; she had neither money, tide, connection, or 
any single advantage, except that she loved him — loved him with 
all her simple, tender, innocent life. 

Oh, no; Daisy must not die. She should spend the remainder ot 
her life wuth him, and, whatever happiness his kindness could give 
her, she should have. He would make no pretense of loving her; 
ho would frankly tell her that; but she should be his wife, it that 
wmuld make her happy. 

He opened the door as though he had just returned, and Mrs, Erne 
came quickly into the room, fie looked up at her with a sinile 

“ 1 have altered my mind,” he said; “ 1 do not think that 1 shall 
go to-morrow, after all.” 


CHAPTER XIX. 

SEALED HER PATE. 

The die was cast. He would marry Daisy — pretty, simple, ten- 
der Daisy should not die for love of him. He ought to have felt at 
rest w'heu he had come to that decision; but he did not sleep well 
that night, He dreamed of Lady 31ay; and, in his dream«, she took 


68 


BETWEEN TWO LOVES. 


Daisy’s place. It was Lady May he was iroing to marry; and, when 
the rapture of his happiness woke him, the cold, stern reality was 
like a sharp wound. 

“ 1 shall never be happy,” he thought to himself. ‘‘All idea of 
happiness is at an end; hut 1 could make Daisy happy.” 

He decided. In the morning he would speak to her— he would 
tell her what he had decided, and ask her to be his wife. He saw 
her in the morning— the wan, white face and darkened eyes struck 
him. 

‘‘ Daisy,” he asked, did not your mother tell you 1 had changed 
my mind— 1 am nut going to-day?” 

She raised her heavy eyes to his. 

“ If it is not to-day, it will be to-morrow or the day after — or the 
day will soon come when you will go.” 

“ 1 have something to ask you first,” he said. ‘‘ Will you come 
out into the gaAlen with me, Daisy?— 1 want to tell you some- 
thing.” 

“ Can you not tell me here, Mr. Clifton? It is about your part- 
ing, 1 suppose?” 

” Not exactly, and 1 can not talk to you here. You always look 
to me more at home among the flowers and trees than in these 
rooms. See how' the sun is shining— how the birds are singing! 
Come, Daisy, and hear what 1 have to say.” 

She walked by his side slowly enough. As a rule, Daisy danced 
rather than walked; but now her step was slow and languid. He 
went to the seat under the trees where she had sat so many hours 
with him. He placed her there, and stood by her side; then his 
heart misgave him— his whole soul shrunk from the task. It was 
Lady May whom he loved— the woman who had deceived and 
scorned him. As he stood in the sunshine, the memory of the hour 
in wdiich he had asked Lady May to be his wife came over him. He 
saw" again the Deautitul, proud face softening in tenderness for him — 
the proud, sweet lips smiling for him; h3 heard the wiiispered w-ords 
in which she answeied she loved him. How could he ask this girl 
to take her place? He stared in silence, the words he had intended 
to speak dyins: on his lips. Suddenly Daisy looked up at him,*a 
world of reproach in the dark, sorrowful ej'es. 

‘‘ Why did you ask me to come here, Mr. Clifton? You did 
not really want to speak to me.” 

She rose, as though to return. Daisy was not herself— the gentle 
grace ot her movements seemed to have left her; she was abrupt, 
almost bru.sque, if t'lat could be possible to Daisy. She turned 
away, but he laid his hand on her arm, and gently (ietained her. 

“ Daisy,” he said. ” you seem to be angry with me. What is it — 
have 1 offended you? Have 1 done anything that displeased you?” 

‘‘ No,” she replied, in a low voice. ‘‘1 am not angry or dis- 
pleased.” 

” Then what are you, Daisy? We are such old friends, you need 
not be afraid to tell me the truth.” 

‘‘ 1 am sorry you are going,” said Daisy, with a deep blush. 
*‘ You have been so kind to me, and it has all been so pleasant; and 
1—1 do not see how jt can ever be the same when you are gone.” 


BETWEEN TWO LOVES. 69 

Then Daisy stopped abruptly, with a suspicion ot tears in her 
voice. 

“ 1 want to remedy all that,” he said. ‘‘Will you go with me 
Daisy?” ’ 

Kever until the day he died did he forget the sudden light that 
transtigured her face— it absolutely dazzled him. 

‘‘ 1!” she repeated. ‘‘ Oh, Mr. Clifton, do you really mean it?” 

” If you will consent, Daisy. \ou have not yet heard all that I 
have to ask. W^iil you go with me as my wife— will you marry 
me?” 

Her face fell then, and she looked at him most pitifully. 

” Your wife? 1—1 do not want to be married, Mr. Clifton,” she 
said, slowly. 

‘‘ And why not, Daisy?” he asked. 

‘‘ 1 do not think marriage is ever very happy; every one 1 know 
who is married is unhappy.” 

‘‘ Surely not. Your father and mother were happy?” 

” Yes,” she answered, with unconscious logic; ‘‘ but then they 
loved each other.’* 

He was about to say, ‘‘And so 1 love you;” but he paused 
abruptl}^; not in truth or in honor could he say that. 

‘‘ Do you really believe that all people that marry are unhappy, 
Daisy? Dear child, what a terrible mistake 1 Why, a married life 
is supposed to be the happiest in the world; what makes you think 
differently?” 

” Men beat their wives.” said Daisy, gravely. 

” Kot in our class— at least, 1 mean, not respectable men. You 
might as well say all millers were blind because you happened to 
see one blind miller, as that all men beat their wives because one or 
two bad ones do so. W hat a strange idea! And is that the reason 
why you do not care to be married?” 

‘‘Ko, not quite; but 1 do not care about it, Mr. Clifton. 1 
should like to wait on you, always to be near you; but 1 have 
never thought of being married.” 

\ou could not go aw^ay with me, Daisy, unless you went as 
my wife.” 

‘‘ Could I. not?” she asked, slowly. 

‘‘ No. Without a doubt you have formed to yourself some 
idyllic idea of life — that you could go away with 0 . 0 , go wherever 
1 went, wait upon me, and take care of me, as you have done here. 
Is it not so?” 

” That is w’hat 1 should have liked,” she said. 

‘‘And that, Daisy, is what can never be. Etiquette ana the 
proprieties of life forbid it. You could not leave with me and stay 
with me, unless it were as my wife.” 

Daisy looked up shyly at him. 

‘‘Would you really iike me to be your wife?” she said. ‘‘You 
know' 1 am not very clever, and you are far aoove me.” 

‘‘ Why do you say that 1 am so far above 3 'ou, Daisy?” 

‘‘ Because you are a gentleman, and 1 am a gamekeeper’s 
daughter. My mother said there could be no comparison between 
your position and ours.” 

” Would you take me to be very rich, then, Daisy?” 


JiETWEEN TWO LOVES. 


"/O 


She looked up at him with sweet, earnest gravity. 

“ Kot so tevij rich,” she replied; ” but you have money, and we 
have none.” 

“ You would not take me to be an English nobleman, then, 
Daisy?” he asked, laughingly. 

“ No,” she replied. “ My mother said you looked like one, but 
1 know you are not one.” 

” Then it is tor nivself she loves me,” he thought. ” Daisy,” he 
continued, “ I should like to tell you something; when you will 
decide for yourself whether you will be my wife or not. Vears ago 
1 loved some one — ” 

*• i know,” eagerly interrupted Daisy; ‘‘ and she is dead.” 

“ Dead to me,” said Sir Clinton; but Daisy did not understand 
liim aright. 

He looked at the pure, iiplilted face. 

” My life and my love,” he said, ” the best of my hopes, all my 
happiness, tlied too. Daisy, I have no warm or fervent love, no 
heart to give any woman. I shall never be happ}' again; but it 3 'ou 
will take what 1 have to give— a true and sincere esteem, a friendly 
iikina, a keen desire tor your happiness — 1 will do my best.” 

” But that,” said Daisy, slowly, “ is not love.” 

He was somewhat taken aback by her wmrds, yet they were but a 
repetition ot his own. 

” It is not love, Daisy — you are right; hut it is enough to marry 
on.” 

” AVould you wish me to be your wife without your loving me?” 
asked Daisy. 

He was at a loss to answ'ei ; he could not tell her what he had 
overheard, and that he w'as marrying her out of pity for her. He 
would not wound her by telling her the truth. What Was he to 
say? 

” The happiest marriages,” he said, “ are not alv/ays those which 
spring from the most frantic love. Daisy, be my wife— you shall 
not complain ot want ot happiness.” 

” Could 1 make you happy?” she asked, gQntl 3 \ ” If 1 thought 
1 could do that 1 would not hesitate. 1 care more for your happi- 
ness than tor my own. 1 would do anything in the world for you.” 

” Then jmu shall do just this one tiring 1 have asked you. You 
shall be my wife— will you, Daisy?” 

She answered ” yes,” and so sealed her fate! 

He took her hand in his, not to kiss itt even as he held it, the 
memory came to liiin ot another hand, white and jeweled, that he 
had kissed with passionate kisses, then had refused even to touch. 
He drove that memory away. This girl who loved him was to be 
his wife. 

So they were betrothed, and Daisy hardly understood the gleam 
of sunlight that had fallen at her feet. She said to herself, over 
and over again, that she was to many Mr. Clifton, was to be his 
wife, but she did not realize it. 

She looked up at him suddenly. 

” Mr. Clifton,” she said, ” will j^ou tell me what made you tliiiik 
of this all at once? Yesterday you spoke only of going away, and 


between two loves. 'M 

hoped, on yotir return, to find me married and llapp3^ You bad 
not thought then ot asking me to be jour wife?” 

” 1 had not, Daisy.” 

” Then what made jmu think ot it?” she pcxsisted. ” I should 
nut have thought tliat such an idea could have spriinsr up suddenly 
What made you think of it?” 

“That is my secret, Daisy,” he replied, very gently. ” It can 
not matter whether 1 thought of it one day or sixty beforehand 
Perhaps i began to think how much 1 shouki miss you, and found 
out that 1 could not do without you.” 

” Was that it?” she asked, her whole face growing so tender and 
beautiful in the light of love tdat he could not bear to undeceive 
her. t?he took his nand and held it tightly clasped, ‘‘ Was that 
it ? 1 am so glad!” 8he almost sobbed as she spoke. ” 1 thought 
perhaps you were marrying me because jmu felt sorry for me. You 
have made nte so happy 1” 

As though by magic the lovely bloom came back to her face, the 
light to her ej^es. She was once again the bright, happy girl he 
had known. The storm of love, and passion, and grief seemed to 
have passed over her and left her. 

They walked on in silence; Daisy broke it first. 

” When 1 am your wife,” she said, ” 1 shall never have to leave 
you.” 

” Never, Daisy; in life and in death we shall never be parted.” 

She smiled, and he thought he had never seen such perfect con- 
tent, such perfect bliss, in anj^ face. 

” 1 am so glad!” she said. ” But how strange it seems! 1 never 
thought that 1 would like to many any one, and now 1 am going 
to marrj^ you.” 

‘‘There is one thing, Daisy,” said Sir Clinton; ”1 have not 
altered my mind about going abroad— shall you be willing io leave 
your mother and come with me?” 

” Yes; 1 love her very much, but 1 would follow you to the ut- 
most bounds ot the earth.” 

” Do yon really loJe me so very much, Daisy?”. he asked; and 
she made such an answer as satisfied him, 

‘‘ Then j'oii will be willing to waive all forme, and consent to our 
immediate marriage, Daisy; then to go to France with me?” • 

‘‘Yes; 1 consent willingly,” said Daisy. “Ah. me, 1 am so 
happy! When I got up this morning 1 wished the birds would 
cease to sing, and the sun to shine. ] was so miserable that every- 
thing bright seemed to mock me.” 

“ All for me, Daisy?” 

“ Yes; all for you, Mr. Clifton, Now it is quite different. If it 
would not be very undignified, 1 should like to dance from here to 
the garden gate; but I must not do that.” 

“ Why not, Daisy?” 

“If 1 am to be niarried 1 must learn to he grave and sedate; all 
ladies are so, 1 suppose.” 

Sir Clinton laughed. He could remember some married ladies 
not at all famed for thrir gravity or sedateness. 

“ You must not try to change yourself in one respect,” he said. 


*72 BETWKEK TWO toxics, 

“ You are charming as you are— a perfect field daisy. You Would 
be spoiled as a garden flower.” 

” Is that a compliment?” she asked dubiously. 

“ Yes; 1 have not paid you many compliments in my life, Daisy 
— have 1?” 

“ You have paid me the greatest of all in asking me to be your 
wife,” she said gently; and Sir Clinton, although he did not love 
her, telt pleased. 


CHAPTER XX. 

AN UNLOVED WIFE. 

It was some hours before Mrs. Erne recovered from her surprise. 
Marry Daisy!— it seemed incredible. She had never noticed the 
least sign ot love on his part for Daisy. He had been kind to her, 
and seemed to like her with him— but love! why she had never 
dreamed of it. Her distress had been great when she found that 
Daisy was so much attached to him ; that it should end in marr iage 
was wonderful to her. 

She had no objection when Sir Clinton asked her the question. 
She took the corner of her apron in her hand, rubbing it very hard, 
as though to extract wisdom from it. 

*‘ What objection can 1 have, Mr. Clifton,” she said, ” if Daisy 
loves you and you love her? I shall lose her, it is true: but it she 
is happy 1 must not thinK of that.” 

“She will be happy,” said Sir Clinton; ‘‘you may rest quite 
assured ot that. 1 shall make her happiness my study.” 

Again Mrs. Erne looked up at him with a puzzled expression ot 
face. 

” You know we are very poor, sir,” she said. ‘‘ I need not tell 
you that Daisy has no money; but, if you will pardon me, she has 
no clothes fitted for one who is to be 3 mur wife. Daisy tells me she 
is to go away with you; she could not travel with you, sir, in her 
cottage dress. ’ ’ 

‘‘No; I am- glad j’^ou thought of it. Get her what .you can here, 
Mrs. Erne; 1 will buy more as w^e pass through Paris. Do not make 
her fine; she is a field daisy— let her keep her simplicity of taste.” 

Sir Clinton placed some mone^'^ in the happ}’^ mother’s hands. 

” Go to AVoodburn and purchase what she requires; see that it is 
done quickly. 1 hope to have our marriage over next week. I am 
anxious to get abroad.” 

He could not tell her how the very spirit of unrest was on him, 
and life in the cottage was growing unendurable to him. 

Mrs. Erne looked to see wdiat he had given her, and was almost 
horrified to find a bank-note for fifty pounds. Fifty pounds — all 
tor dress! AVh}', she had never had so much jn her life. She 
hardly knew how it wjis all to be spent. 

” Even if 1 buy her silks and satins,” she thought, ” it will not 
take all that money.” 

Rut she look the delighted, happy, lovely Daisy with her. 

AVith faltering steps they entered the first shop in AA’oodburn— a 
shop wiiere before they had never dared to tread. Fifty pounds! 


BETWEEN TAVO LOVES. 


73 

Surely money never gave such happiness before. For the first time 
Daisy’s pretty feet were covered with well-fitting shoes, her deJicate 
hands with dainty gloves. The stylish dress made such a change 
in her that Sir Clinton hardly knew her. Her mother made her 
dress herself in the pretty girlish costume, and show it to her lover. 
It was one ot the loveliest sights in the world to see Daisy, her face 
crimson with blushes, standing so coyly before him, trying to hide 
her deliuht, 

“Why, Daisy,” he cried, startled into admiration, “you will 
turn out a perfect beauty on my hands.” 

“ 1 wish 1 could,” she said; “ 1 should like to be so beautiful 
that every time you looked at me you would love me over again.*' 

“ Daisy,” cried her mother, in a horrified voice, “ how freely you 
speak! Mr. Clifton will think you have been strangely brou'ght 
up.” 

“ Mr. Clifton admires her frankness,” said Sir Clinton. 

And Mrs. Erne, thinking she might be one too many, went 
away. 

“ Do you really think 1 look nice?” said Daisy, shyly. “ Are 
you realiy pleased with me?” 

“ How^ could 1 be anything else?” he asked. 

“ 1 am so grateful to you, Mr. Clifton. You are almost too good 
to me. See, 1 owe you everything in the world — my new life, my 
happiness, my love, and now, all these beautiful things. 1 wish I 
knew how to thank you.” 

He was quick at reading women’s faces, and he knew by the wist- 
ful expression of Daisy’s that she almost expected him to caress 
her. She had drawn near to him, and her little hand had stolen 
into his. 

“ 1 will try always to look so nice,” she said, simply, “ so that 
whenever your eyes fall upon me they may be gratified.” 

He would have given anything if he could so far have mastered 
himself as to bend down and kiss the lovely, dimpling, happy face; 
but he could not. Between Daisy and himself there lay the shadow 
of his unhappy love. 

“ God bless you, Daisy!” he said, almost involuntarily. 

“ God has helped me,” she replied. “ You do not know how I 
used to pray that 1 might go with you, and see how my prayer is 
granted.” 

That was a novel view of the subject to Sir Clinton; but Daisy 
looked so pure in her simple reverence he would liOt for worlds 
have disturbed it. He laid his hand on her shoulder, and spoke 
some kindly words of praise that made the girl’s heart beat and her 
cheeks glovv; that was in place of the kiss he should have given her 
and could not. 

The next thing he did w\as to make .Mrs. Erne happy by telling 
her of the little annuity he intended settling on her. It was not a 
large one, as he did not wish to arouse her suspicions as to his ways 
and means. 

“ 1 am taking 5mur daughter aw^ay from you,” he said; “ but 1 
will try to make amends bj giving you the means oi living in com* 
fort and in peace.” 


BETWEEN TWO LOVES. 


74 

She thanked him; but it was to Daisy she oi)ened her heart, sob- 
bing out her jriatitude. 

“ How dearly he must love you, Daisy, when he does all this for 
me,” she said. ‘‘ Only think, 1 shall be able to rest at last, to keep 
a little servant, and to have a friend every now and then to tea!”— the 
height of her simple ainbiiion, beyond which she had never looked. 

“Do you really think he loves me so much, mother?” asked 
Daisy. 

“ If he did not,” was the logical answer, “ why should he do all 
this?” 

“ 1 have never seen any one— anyone in love,” stammered Daisy. 
“ Was my father like him?” 

“No; your father used to call me all kinds of pet names, and he 
would have walked fifty miles, so he said, to kiss my hand; but all 
people difl[er. Your Mr. Clifton shows his love in actions more 
than in words. You are a fortunate girl.” 

There was little trouble over the marriage — money can do so 
much. 8ir Clinton procured a special license, and made all arrange- 
ments himself. 

Yet, even while busied over them, even with Daisy’s happy voice 
singing in his ears, with her happ.y, bright face before his eyes, with 
all this knowledge of the intensity of happiness his love had brought 
her, there were times wheh his heart misgave him, and he did not 
see how he was to endure it. There were times when he w'ould 
cheerfully have sacrificed all his fortune, almost his life, to Daisy, 
to have freed himself from his promise; there were times when, in 
his desperation, he thought it would be easier to die than to call any 
other woman, save Lady May, his wife — when he would have none 
away and never returned. One tlioucht alone restrained him — it 
w’as of Daisy’s broken heart. iSo other should sufier for him, he 
Ihougiit, what he had suffered for Lady May. 

Daisy was satisfied ; she did not know what was passing In his 
mind. If she saw him grave, sad, or abstracted, she said to herself 
that he w^as thinking of his dead friend. She never disturbed him 
then by one word. She was so quiet and gentle, so anxious about 
him, so studious of his every look and word, that he must have 
been more than human not to have been touched by it. So he trod 
down, beat back, with strong, fierce hands, the thought of the love 
that had been torture and madness to him. He tried lo say to him- 
self that he was ungrateful for the good things God had given him; 
that he had wealth, health, strength; that he would have a gentle, 
loving, lovely wife, with whom he might be happ}^ if he could only 
forget Lady May. 

Then he would raise his face with a despairing ciy to the smiling 
heaven; was he never to forget her?— was he never to lose the mem- 
ory of that which maddened him?— was he to suffer all his life be- 
cause that royally beautiful w'oman had duped and deceived him? 

He fell asleep one day in the hay-fields. The sun w'as shining 
warmly on him, the fragrance of the newly-mown hay and the haw- 
thorn floating around him, the song of the birds, the soft cooing of 
the w^ood pigeons, the whisper of the sweet, western wind had lulled 
him to sleep, and he was happy in a dream. He dreamed that all 
ids quairel and parting, all his trouble, sorrow, and madness, hia 


tavo loves. 75 

long illness, had been a fancy, that they had never really happened, 
and that Lady May stood by liim with a loving smile on her beauti- 
tnl face, telling him the church bells were ringing, lor it was their 
wedding-day. Be clasped her in his arms, covering her lace tvith 
kisses, telling her he loved her with a love stronger than death, and 
she, in his dream, clasped her white arms round his neck, saying, 
“ So 1 love you, my love;” and then the very ecstasy ol his happi- 
ness woke him. 

It was all a dream — only a dream. 

He buried his face in his hands, and cried aloud. In dreams, the 
fair lace of his lost love haunted him, her voice whispered sweet 
words to him; then he would wake, despairing, almost mad. It is 
a terrible thing when a man gives the whole of his heart and the 
strength ot his manhood to one deep, intense passion. He loved 
one woman with his whole heart and soul, yet he was on the point 
of marrying another. It was well for Daisy that she did not know 
much about love or lovers, or surely she would have found out 
w’hat was wanting; as it was, he was kind to her, and she was con- 
tent. 

The wedding-day came — it was never forgotten; a warm, brill- 
iant day in June, when tire sky was so deeply, darkly blue, and the 
sun so bright, that the world seemed all gold and blue. Such a 
quiet wedding-day! Daisy woke with the first sunbeam, happy and 
light ot heart as the birds that sung beneath the window, beautiful 
as the blooming flowers. Her wedding-day! Poor, unloved Daisy, 
all unconscious of what she had missed; all unconscious of the 
warmth ol love that should be hers; all unconscious that long be- 
fore the day dawned a white, haggard lace was watching the dawn, 
a wearied, desperate soul crying vainly for help — never dreaming 
that this, her wedding-day, which was to her the very climax of 
her happiness, was to him as the day of doom. 

They were married at the church of St. Stephen, in Woodburn. 
Mrs. Erne was the only witness of the marriage. Daisy would not 
ask any of the shopkeepers’ daughters to be her bride-maids, even 
though she was marrying a gentleman, and they would, perhaps, 
dislike to act for her. Pretty, blushing, lovely Daisy was too shy 
to notice that her husband’s name was written Clinton Adair; she 
never noticed that the minister used it. She could only think one 
thing, and it was that she was now his wife. 

A quiet wedding, with the brilliant sun shining and all nature 
laughing — one light, happy heart, and one sad with the sadness ot 
death. 'I'hey di(l not return to the cottage when that wedding was 
over; Daisy had said good-by to her old home. They went to a 
hotel in Woodburn, wLere Sir Clinton ordered a quiet lunch, and 
gladdened Mrs. Erne with a srlass of good wine. 

They were to go by rail to Dover, and to cross to Calais by the 
night boat. The luggage had all gone on, and there was nothing- 
left to trouble about. 

So, wdien the luncheon was over. Sir Clinton went out while the 
mother and daughter said “good-by.” He was tender of heart, 
and could not endure the sight ot a woman’s tears. Then the fly 
came that was to take them to the station, and, turning gravely to 
Daisy when they were alone, he said- 


BETWKEN TWO LOVES. 


70 

“It Las been a trial for you, parting with your mother; Daisy, 
but 1 must try to prevent you from missing her/’ ’ 

Ana Daisy clung to him, crying out that she should miss nothing 
in the wide world now that she had him. Even then, though he 
was touched by her gentle beauty, by her loveliness, by her emo- 
tion-even then he did not kiss her face. 


CHAPTER XXL 

HUSBANDS CONTRASTED. 

In the south of France, where sunny seas kissed the shores, where 
the orange and the myrtle, the olive and vine grew in luxuriance; 
where flowers of sweetest odor made the air fn-iut with perfume; 
where birds sung songs that they never sing in England — there Sir 
Clinton had made his home. He had cut himself off from his old 
life, he had forgotten old friends, old habits; he tried to begin his 
life from the time he married Daisy. 'They lived in a lovely little 
villa on the shores of the sunny southern sea. No visitors, no let- 
ters, no papers came to mar his idea of isolation. He had brought 
with him an enormous quantity of books, he cultivated his taste for 
sketching, he busied himself in trying to educate Daisy, he found 
for himself a thousand occupations; he interested himself in the 
beautiful gardens that surrounded the villa, he studied hard for sev- 
eral hours m the day, and all this he did with the one sole object 
and hope of forgetting Lady May. He honestly did his best to for- 
get her; he turned as resolutely from the thought of her as he would 
have turned from the temptation to commit a mortal crime. 

Yet how was it? He painted, sketched, drew, but every face his 
pencil traced was like hers. No matter how he tried, her beautiful 
mouth, her proud, bright eyes, the lovely hues of her face and neck 
were sure to creep in. if he wrote, as he often did, pretty little 
poems, how was it he felt compelled to make every other line rhyme 
with May? She had such complete and perfect possession of* his 
whole being that, do as he would, he could not separate himself 
from her. More than once Daisy asked him to take some English 
newspaper, and it was almost the only wish that he ever refused 
her. 

“ 1 do not care to know English news, Dais}',” he said; “ and if 
you read it, 1 am sure you would repeat it to me.” 

He had a nervous, morbid dread of reading her name, of reading 
of her progress, of parties, balls, or soirees given by the Duchess of 
Rosecarn ; he dreaded to read of her beauty and her fame, lest, re- 
membering how she had duped him, and how he had loved her.’ the 
old madness should break cut and destroy him. He had left Eng- 
land, and he liad no wish to see it, to hear of it again; the ])ast was 
all dead — buried— the old love slain; he was trying his best to make 
Daisy happy and forget the rest. He did his best; every wish and 
whim of hers was gratified; he tried to think of everything that 
would be likely to please her, of everything tiiat could in the*^ least 
conduce to her happiness; he made her, as he had said he would 
his study. " 


BETWEEN TWO LOVES. 


77 

She wondered why he dreaded the name of En^^land, why he 
never talked to her of ihe past, why he carefully avoided all topics 
except thuse ot her present life and ways. 

He was not happy; the handsome face that had first won Lady 
May’s attention was worn and haggard; the eyes were shadowed as 
those of one who had a constant abiding care; he never laughed; 
seldom smiled, except when it was to please Daisy; he was grave, 
sad, silent, standing always, as it were, by the grave of his lost 
love. He tried by constant occupation to create an interest in his 
present life, but there were times when he failed most miserably; 
there were hours and hours when his pretty young wife sung to 
him, talked to him, and he never heard either a note of her music 
or one word that she said. He owned to himself that it was a terri- 
ble thing to love as he had loved, a fearful thing to place one’s life 
and bemt, one’s love and soul, in a woman’s hand. He spent no 
time in lamenting or mouining; he spent no time in dreaming of a 
past he dreaded; but to an attentive observer one look at his face 
was enough to show that he was in very truth a most miserable 
man. 

He made no acquaintances in that fair land. Sunny hearted 
Frenchmen would fain have given kindly greeting to the reserved, 
sad Englishman and his fair young wife. 

“ Why is it?” they asked each other, with wondering faces. 
” He is rich; he has a fine house, a lovely wife. How wonderful 
are the ways ot an Englishman! — he has all this, yet is not happy.” 

He had been there tor two years, and had made no acquaintances. 
He grew thinner and paler; the constant struggle was wearing his 
strength away. He had sworn to do right, but he could not forget 
his lost love — he could not love Daisy even as he had hoped to love 
her. The only comfort he had was in thinking this life would not 
last forever, and after it was ended, if nothing better, there would 
at least be oblivion. He had been all that was kind and generous 
to Daisy; he had studied to speak cheerfully to her, to smile, to look 
interested; he was passive when she laid her white arms on his and 
told him how dearly she loved him. She was learning Italian with 
him, and it was pretty to hear how she called him — 

‘‘ Life of my life, my soul, my heart, my all.” 

It was pretty to see her kiss his hands, never dreaming of kissing 
his face. She was growing very lovely and graceful, this simple field 
daisy; her hands had grown soft and ‘white, they had lost all trace 
of work; she had lost the slight country accent that he had once 
tliought almost pretty. It had been one of his occupations to edu- 
cate her; he had her taught French and Italian; Daisy could sing 
gay French chansons and Italian airs — she had developed into a 
most charming, accomplislied woman. 

Quite content— that was the great beauty of it — quite content with 
her lot; loving him with the same enthusiastic, love, yet never find- 
ing out what v/as wanted in him; never exacting, always humble, 
docile, submissive; content if at rare intervals he laid his hand ca- 
ressingly on her soft, brown hair, and said, “ My pretty Daisy;” 
content if once in a way he took her pretty hand and held it clasped 
in his own; content if he spoke kindly to her and seemed to remem- 
ber she was there. IJ^ot an exacting wife— not a wife likely to be 


78 


BET^YEE^q■ TWO LOVES. 


tiresome or jealous. It tvas simply that he remained passive under 
the greatness of her love, and made no return. 

If any one had asked her was she happy, she would have an- 
swered, “ Most perfectly so.” She knew no liigher happiness than 
tliiii of being always with him, and being allowed to love him. She 
had seen so little ot the world, so little of life, so little of marriages, 
that she probably thought the normal state of things was that the 
wife should do all the petting, coaxing, persuading, and the hus- 
band be the dignified recipient of her love. 

So, while pretty Daisy was ignorant, she was happy, knowing 
nothing higher or better; but the time was coming wdien she was to 
awake to the tact that all the love was on her side. 

Some repairs were required at the villa, and Sir Clinton, who had 
a loatliing for the smell ot paint and varnish, said, while the.y were 
being executed, they would go to the pretty little watering-place called 
Leville, a few miles distant; the change would do tiiem good. 
Daisy was nothing loath. There was one thing Sir Clinton said to 
himself— tl'.ere would be no English there — Leville was quite out of 
the way of the English. They "went, and remained for some days at 
the Hotel Deprey— a charmino; house, standing on the brow of a hill. 
There were few people, but after a day or two, to the intense amaze- 
ment of Sir Clinton, and the secret delight of Daisy, an English 
gentleman came with his young wife, Mr. and Mrs. De Grey. 

When Sir Clinton heard it his first impulse was to 11}% but he 
found Mr. De Grey as shy and retired as he was himselt. IMany 
days passed, durino; which they merely exchanged the tourists’ ci- 
vilities at table; then, seeing that neither of them had the least desire 
to make the other’s acquaintance, they spoke occasional!}". Daisy 
studied them — they were the first people she had seen in her new 
sphere of life, and she was struck with the difference between them 
and her own husband. She used to look with wonder at ]\Ir. De 
Grey. 

Sir Clinton was always attentive to her, after the fashion ot a 
well-bred gentleman; but when Mr. De Grey did anything for his 
wife, it was as though he did it for love of her, and not because it 
was etiquette. Then she heard the caressimr words; she saw that 
he never left the house without coming to kiss his wife, and always 
did the same on his return. 

The tvvo ladies had grown to like each other, and Sir Clinton saw 
no possible inconvenience could arise from that. Tl'he De Greys 
were not quite of bis class, and if Daisy liked to spend her time 
wdth them it was all right, he never objected. So the twm young 
wives walked out together, and very frequently Daisy would go to 
IMrs. De Grey’s rooms. 

Then she saw the difference between a loved anil an unloved wife. 
Mr. De Grey never seemed happy away from his wife; lie left her 
witli regret, and sought her presence with avidity. They soon be- 
came accustomed to Daisy, and made no stranger of her. Then she 
heard words that w"ere new to her. 

” Does your husband alw^ays call you darling?” she asked Mrs. 
De Grey one day; and the w"ite who was loved looked at her with a 
smile, and answered: 

” i'es— does not yours?’" 


BETWEEJS" TWO LOVES. 79 

“ Oh, no!” cried Daisy, sbriuKinff from the question— she hardly 
knew why; “ it is quite a new word to me ” 

“ 1 think it is a very pretty word,” said little Mrs. DeGrey, “ and 
1 like my husband to use it,” 

Anoilier time, when both ladies were in Mrs, De Grey’s room, her 
husband brought in a beautitul spray ot orange blossoms. 

” Kate, let me be your hair-dresser,” he said; and he fastened it 
in the glossy coils ot her hair. 

She laughed at him. 

‘‘ Orange blossoms are for brides, not for wives,” she said. 

“ \ou will always be a bride to me,” Daisy heard him whisper, 
” the fairest wife, the sweetest bride the world holds.” 

Then he bent down and kissed his wife's face. 

Daisy looked on in mule wonder. Why, what kind of husband 
and wife were these? Her husband never called her darling, never 
placed fiovvers in her hair, never kissed her. There must be some- 
thing wrong; they were certainly different. 

That same day she went up to JMrs. De Grey, with a sly, blushing 
face, 

” 1 could not help hearing all jmur husband said to you this 
morning: does he — you will not be angry with me — does he often 
kiss you?” 

The merriest peal of laughter she had ever heard came from Mrs. 
De Grey. 

” Kiss me — Charley kiss me? Why, ot course he does. 1 often 
feel quite vexed wlieii my hair looks nice; he does not care. What 
a strange question! Does your husband never kiss you?” 

“Never,” replied Daisy, feeling as though she weie very much 
behind the rest of the world. “ 1 do not remember that he has ever 
kissed me. Is it such a great sign ot love?” 

“ 1 do not believe,” said Mrs. De Grey, brusquely, “ that there is 
much love without it.” 

Then seeing the sudden keen pain on Daisy’s face, she hastened to 
add: 

“ People differ so, it is impossible to judge; my husband is one 
of the demonstrative kind — perhaps yours is not.” 

She spoke kindly, but Daisy pondered much in secret over it. It 
came home to her with full, cruel force, that outwardly, at least, her 
husband did not show any great signs of love for her. 


CHAPTER XXII. 

DIDO OP LOVE. 

From that time Daisy’s desire to know the truth became irresisti- 
ble— did her husband love her with real love or not? True, ns Mrs. 
De Grey said, there were many kinds of love, many ways of show- 
ing it. Some were demonstrative, others were not; but surelv all 
love must have a soUl in it. Was there any soul in the gieat, kind- 
ly affection that her husband showed to her? She sat one day in 
the pretty, vine- wreathed summer-house thinking it over—trying to 
decide for herself whether he loved her or not. She could remember 


BETWEEN TWO LOVES. 


80 

how often, when she spoke to him suddenly, he looked at her with 
(lazed, dreamy eyes, as though he had iorgotten even her existence, 
and was suddenly reminded ot it; how often the sound of her voice 
seemed to recall him from Cloudland He spent quite the half of his 
life in thoughts, and dreams, and memories, in whicLx she had no 
share 

One day she was reading to him from a selection of Irish ballads 
— they still kept up that custom; Daisy liked nothing better than 
those evenings when, while tne sun set over the purple hills and the 
blue sea, she read to him. Did he hear every v(ord that fell from 
those kindly,' loving lips? It was to be feared not; but on this even- 
ing he seemed more abstracted than ever, and she had chosen, from 
(ill others, the lovely ballad, “ Waiting for the J\ia 3 ^'’ lie (lid not 
seem to pay much attention until he heard the refrain, “lam 
weary, 1 am weary, waiting for the May." She saw him start at 
the sound of the lak word. 

“ What is that, Daisy?— what about May?" The words left his 
lips with a violent eflort. “ What about May?" he repeated. 

And she read calmly : 

“ ‘ 1 am weary, I am weary, waiting for the May.’ ’* 

He left his seat. 

“ Do not read any more, Daisy," he said; “ 1 can not bear any 
more." 

And the next minute, to her surprise he was walking with rapid 
steps down the road that led to the sea. Ah, Heaven, how true it 
was! he was faint, he was weary— weary, longing for the Ma}". The 
sound ot the familiar word thrilled him with keenest pain, with 
passionate love. 

“ ]\Iay ! Mayl" he cried aloud, and the waves seemed to re-echo 
the sound. 

He flung himself despairingly on the sands. Oh, Heaven I if he 
could end it— end this passionate, terrible love, or die! To thinK 
that a man should be so unmanned I He cried shame on himself; 
he called himself weak, cowardly— he reproached himself with bit- 
ter words; yet the burning love was there, the passionate, despair- 
ing-love that was never to grow less. He hated himself for his 
weakness, yet he wished that, as he lay there, the waves would 
wash over him and bear him away, He should be happy in death, 
not in life; he could not find rest or peace. Then he stoocl up in the 
starlight, and, raising his face to the high heavens, he prayed that 
he might live down the love that was destroying him. 

“ 1 wish 10 be an honest, upright man," he said to himself, “ 1 
have no desire for wrong; 1 have a faithful, tender, innocent wife 
• — 1 pray Heaven that 1 may be faithfiil to her; 1 have no wish that 
even a thought should stray from her." 

Then, when he was calm, and the fiery tempest had in some de 
grec passed, he went home; but, as he went,' the waves seemed to 
chant and the wind to sing; 

“lam weary, 1 am weary, waiting for the May!" 

Daisy was standing out among the orange-trees, waiting for him 
with an aujjious face. She bad a name for him, such as most lov- 
Jpg, fanoiiul have tor their husbands. In learning Italian 


BETWEEN TWO LOVES. 81 

she had been struck with the liquid melody of the words. She 
looked up at him one day as she was studying her lesson. 

“ Caro,” she said; “ that means dear.” 

“ 1 think it means something a trifle dearer than dear,'’ said Sir 
Clinton; “ darting would be a better translation.” 

She went up to him timidly. 

“ 1 should like to call you Caro,” she said, gently. ” May 1?” 

” Yes, Daisy; 1 shall be delighted to bear siicli a pretty word 
from your lips. Call me Caro, if you like,” 

Then she ventured more than she had ever done before; sbe 
raised her tender eyes to his face. 

” Are you really Caro?” she said. “ 1 know that 1 love you, but 
do you love me?”' 

” Why, what a question, Daisy, eighteen months after marriage; 
pray, what rivals have you here? Whom else have 1 to love, save 
the sweet wife who loves mei” 

Still, as she remembered afterward, he did not say that he loved 
her. She never forgot that. 

So Daisy went up to him now. 

*‘ Caro,” she said, ” I was growing alarmed; why did you start 
off in that strange fashion? Was there anything in what I read that 
distressed jmu? I thought that ballad so charming, Caro. Tell 
me, did the friend you loved die in May?” 

Evidently simple Daisy had no idea of ]May as a woman’s name. 

“No,” lie replied, hurriedly. ”1 am capricious, Daisy; never 
let my whims trouble you. I have not been quite the same since 
that Tong illness.” 

She took h’s hand between her own, and kissed it lovingly. 

” It w'as a cruel illness to you,” she said, ” but a kind one to mo 
— it sent you to me, 1 should like to have known you before that, 
when you w’ere bright and happy.” 

’‘Aral not bappy now, Daisy?” he asked, touched by her gen 
tJe, loving manner. 

” Sometimes, I fancy not quite,” she replied. 

' Then J tell you what, Daisy,” he said, looking dowui at the 
pure young face, so fair in the moonlight, ” it 1 am not happy with 
you, 1 ought to be ashamed of myself.* No man ever had*a more 
loving wife.” 

He knew it; yet all night, as the wind sighed through the trees, 
and the waves broke on the snore, they seemed to inurmiii ; 

” I am weary, waiting tor tbe May.” 

Daisy thought much of this little episode; to her it had nc mean 
iug. What could May mean more than June or July? Y'et there 
was evidently something in her husband’s mind about it After 
this she purposely mentioned the word; she talked of flowers in 
May, of England in May; and she. saw that he winced from the 
word as though it hurt him. 

” ll€ has had some great trouble in May,” thought Daisy, ” but 1 
shall never know' what it is— he will never tell me, 1 am only out- 
side his iife, after all.” 

Did he love her? Daisv yet dreaded to know Was he different 
to othe," husbands? He was better than some— he bad never been 
unkinq fo her he had never refused her a request, denied her a 


82 


BETWEEJS" TWO LOVES. 


wish, lie had always treated her with kindness and courtesy. But 
was that a sure si.^n of love? He had laui»:hed otteu and often at 
the dreadful ideas she had entertained about matrimony before her 
marriage; he had explained to her that it was only in the lowest 
class, in the most brutal of men, the most debased and degraded, 
that there was such a thing as wife-beating or personal unkindness. 
So that his courtesy to her might not arise from love. She would 
have given all she haa to find out whether he did love her or not. 
She was always making excuses now to go out, in order that she 
might watch the behavior of other married people. Outwardly, she 
did not see much diflerence, but on faces of other men she did not 
read indifference, restlessness— that vague sorrow which she saw on 
her husband’s face, neither did she see wives anxious and wistful 
as herself. Daisy found that, among most of the husbands and 
wives she met, there was a friendly, kindly understanding — they 
had but one interest, one way in life* 

It happened, among other places, that Sir Clinton took her once 
to see a famous old cemetery near the sunn}’’ sea — a cemetery so 
beautiful in its surroundings and in itself, that people brought their 
dead from far and near to be interred there. 

Sir Clinton never forgot that day. It was not often that Daisy 
impressed him— she did then. It was an Italian day, the sun warm 
and bright, the deep ])lue sky marvelous in color; the air was filled 
with perfume from the vines and olives, a thousand fair flowers 
were in bloom; the birds were singing in the trees, and the waves 
seemed to kiss the golden shores. The graves in the cemetery of 
St. JMarie Pierre were beautiful, many of them covered with fes- 
toons of vine leaves, roses, and lilies, all round them. Daisy 
watched them silently. Their, guide told them mauy a sad little 
story; here was the grave of a girl only eighteen; of a young mother 
who died with her babe in her arms; of the father who lay there, 
leaving so many little ones to lament him; there were the little 
graves where lay the innocent children so pleasing to God. 

“ It does not seem like dying,” sa^ Daisy, ” to lie here among 
these flowers, the shadows of the vine leaves lying so lightly, the 
sun shining so warmly, the birds singing so sweetly — it is not like 
dying to lie here.” 

Then the guide showed them a beautiful grave; it was covered 
with festoons of vine leaves; tall white leaves grew over it, rich 
red roses grew near it. 

“ That is the prettiest grave in the cemetery,” said Daisy, 
thoughtfully. 

And it has the saddest story,” said the guide. “ Husband and 
wife sleep there. They came once, soon after their marriage, to 
see this cemetery, and 1 never saw anything like them. It was 
like looking at a picture or reading a poem to watch them.” 

” Why?” interrupted Daisy, hastily. 

‘‘Because he loved her so,” was the reply; “his whole soul 
seemed wrapped up in her. I only saw them tliat once, but 1 never 
forgot them. Ten months afterward she was brought here to be 
buried, and they told me how beautiful she looked in her coffin, 
bolding her little dead babe in her arms. 

” Then, meludi,” coatinucd the guide, for he spoke exclusively 


BETWEEN" TWO LOVES. 


to Daisy, Ihinkinff the subject would please her— “ then, after she 
wns buried, the young husband came here every day, no matter what 
the weather — sunshine, rain, or snow— he came; and he would sit 
by her grave lor hours. Once some of his friends followed him, 
and remonstrated with him. 

“ ‘ You will kill yourself,' they said. 

“ ‘ My heart is dead,’ he replied; ‘ it is buried here: what matter 
how soon my body follows? 1 would rather lie dead in my wife’s 
grave than living elsewhere.’ 

“ Day by day we watched him growing thinner, paler, more 
worn, and haggard; day by day he stayed longer near her grave, and 
seemed more unwilling to leave it; and one evening, when the 
gates of the cemetery were about to be closed, remembering that he 
was still here, 1 came in search of him, mehidi. He lay dead, with 
Ids arms over her grave, and his face buried in the flowers. Me- 
ladi, they say men never die for love; this man did.” 

Daisy looked up at him with a wondering expression on her face. 

‘‘ Died of love,” she said. ” He loved his wife so dearly that he 
could nol live without her. so he died.” 

Then Daisy, turning round to her husband, said: 

“ Did you hear that story, Caro?” 

‘‘ Yes,” replied Sir Clinton; ” 1 heard every word of it.” 

“ And do you believe it — do you believe that a man ever died 
from love?” 

He looked far away over the hills and the blue sea; he, whom 
love had driven mad/looked dreamily, sadly out on the fair, bright 
world. 

” Yes, 1 believe it, Daisy,” he said; ” love is not the plaything 
and pastime that some people would make it. It is a blessing or a 
curse, it is happiness or despair.” 

Then she looked at him with a sweet, wistful expression in her 
eyes. 

” Caro,” she said, gently, ” could you ever die for love of me?” 

He looked down at her; great tears were shining in her eyes; her 
lips trembled. What could he say? In the depths of his heart he 
knew well that he had no such love for her. 

” My dear Daisy,” he said, trying to smile, ” this pretty cemetery 
gives j'ou gloomy ideas; is it not better to live for love than to die 
for it?” 

‘‘ He evades my question,’' thought Daisy; “he always iloes 
when it is about love.” 

She was silent for a few minutes, then she said: 

“ Caro, will you make me one promise?” 

“Yes,” he replied, briefly. 

“ Promise that when 1 die } Ou will bring me here— you will bury 
me here; and, Caro, 1 should like to lie near this beautiful grave, 
near the grave of the man who died for love. You will not forget?” 

“1 wiil not even listen; and, Daisjq you shall not sta}' in this 
melancholy place any longer.” 

He took her away at once, but they, neither of them, forgot the 
cemetery of St. Marie Pierre. 


84 


BETWEEN TWO LOVES. 


CHAPTER XXllL 
daisy’s test. 

TmiEE years have passed since Sir Clinton Adair took his young 
wife to the land of the olive and the vine. Daisy had grown into 
an elegant woman; her fair face retained the innocence of child- 
hood, and had gained the loveliness of womanhood; it was a beau- 
tiful face, pure and fair, with sad sweet eyes, and sad sweet lips. 

Daisy had learned the truth at last. She knew now tliat love of 
her did not fill her husband’s life; she was, as it were, outside his 
life; she had no share. in its inmost depths. He had thoughts, fan- 
cies, memories, dreams in which she had no share. Slowly, sorrow 
fully, sadly, Daisy had awakened to the knowledge of the truth. 
Only by degrees; her own. great love had quickened her instinct. 
She judged him by herself; and how far he was wanting! Ro; he 
did not love her. She noticed little things; his face never bright- 
ened for her. If she entered a room where he was, he looked 
pleased; he had always a kindly smile for her; but that brightness 
which only comes from the heart’s love never overspread his face 
for her; nor it lie heard a strain of sweet music, if he read the 
words of a song, did his thoughts ever wander to her. The perfume 
of llowers, the gleam of the stars, the murmur of the waves, did not 
make him think of lier. Nothing ever seemed to bring them nearer 
together, no sweet impulse ever drew him to her; there vras no ac- 
cord between them ; the love was all on her side, and none on his. 

Daisy did not judge quickly or rashly; she deliberated long 
before she came to this conclusion. Then another thing began to 
puzzle her — if he did not love her, why had he married her? Daisy 
couM not account for tliat. The only gleam of hope or comfort she 
had lay in her utter inability to discover any motive in his marriage 
except love. It could not be for her beauty — he who had trave'ed 
far and wide must surely have seen women far more beautiful than 
she; it could not be for any worldly motive, seeing that she was 
poor, humble, and unknown. 

Then a little hope would come to Daisy, and she wmuld say to her- 
self, “ Fie must have loved me a little;” for that he had overheard 
her conversation with her mother, and had married her from sheer 
pity, Daisy never dreamed. She was not jealous as j^et, tor she did 
not think he had ever loved any one else— he never mentioned any 
other W'oraan’s name. Then would Daisy sigh faintly, and think 
to herself what a problem life was— what a grand puzzle this love 
which occupied all her thoughts. 

The next scene in the tragedy was that Sir Clinton Adair began 
to weary of the monotony of his life. Until now it had seemed to 
him the blow which had struck him down w’as so great that there 
could be no rebound. He had believed that there remained noth- 
ing for him but to remain a few years in exile, then die. 

Now he was stronger, and the strength of his manhood, the force 
of his character, the nobility of mind and soul, began to rebel 


BETWEEN TWO LOVES. 


85 

aj!:alnst the useless life. A oeitain longing for the strife, a desire to 
he once more in the battle-field ot life, came over him. Was he to 
die without havinc done one single great or good deedV Was a 
woman’s hand to slay him so entirely that even the talents and the 
gifts which Heaven had given him were useless? He had suffered 
his pain, and now he longed to he back in the arena. There was 
another thing which made him feel that the wisest thing he could 
do was to go back to the world and work. He had souglit that re- 
tirement in order that in solitude he might learn to forget his fatal 
love, but solitude increased its intensity. He had nothing but 
leisure, and leisure was not good for him. If he looked dreamily 
to the sinning skies, he saw there the face of Lady May; the lus- 
cious perfume ot the flowers, the music ot the birds, the soft, whis- 
pering wind, all brought her back to him. She haunted his solitude 
—perhaps in the busy turmoil of the world there would be less 
room for her. 

He meant to do right before God and man; no thoughts of sin or 
wrong-doing entered his mind. He was cursed with a haunting 
sorrow and a haunting memory; but he meant nu wrong. He in- 
tended to be a kind, faithful husband to Daisy, to live with her in 
peace and harmony; he had no dream of evil. 

But he must go away; he must find work to do; he must run in 
the strife of the world, take his place in its ranks. He said to him- 
self that he would go back to England — not to Eastwold, the home 
he had brightened for Lady May; not there just yet; but he would 
go to London; he would see what was going on in the world; he 
would resume some of his long-neglected duties. He said to him- 
self that he would be very careful — that he would never voluntarily 
look upon the face ot Lady May, “ Duchess of Bosecarn by this 
time,” he thought. 

‘‘No, 1 will not voluntarily meet her; 1 will not throw myself 
into the way of temptation. I may not love Daisy, but 1 will be 
true to her.” 

He resolved upon going, and all that remained was for him to tell 
Daisy. Pie had kept his real name, his title, and fortune a secret 
from her, partly because he liked to think she loved him for him- 
self, and partly because he wanted no one word to remind him of 
the past. He pictured to himself Daisy’s wonderment, Daisy’s sur- 
prise. 

‘‘ It will he a case of Lord Burleigh over again,” he said to him- 
self. ‘‘ 1 shall take her in the time to come to Eastwold, and tell her 
she is Lady Adair.” 

She would well become the position and title. He had called her 
a field-daisy, but she was not a field-flower now; there was no truer 
lady in all the land than Daisy Adair. 

” Daisy,” said Sir Clinton, as they walked one evening by the 
sea-shore — ‘‘ Dais 3 % are you not growing tired ot this life?” 

“Tired?” she replied; “no. What life could be more beauti- 
ful?” 

“ But we see no one, we hear nothing, we know nothing of what 
is going on in the world — we are buried alive.” 

“ 1 thought that was what you liked best, and wished for most,” 


80 l^P.TWEEK T^yO LOVES. 

said Daisy. “ ‘Why, Caro, you would never consent to See or know 
anyone,” 

” I feel better now,’’ he said, “ stronger, and the morbid dislike 
1 had to my kind is dying away. 1 want to go into the world again, 
Daisy; there is nothing to do here, nothing to give an interest in 
life.” 

He did not see the mute reproach of the sweet, sad eyes raised to 
his. 

No interest in life, when she was with him — nothing to live for 
when he had her! Daisy grew sick and faint, a feeling of despair 
came over her. She was less than nothing to him — why had he 
married her? 

” I thought,” he said, ” of going back to England and remaining 
there for some time; I shall see then what there is to do. After all, 
these efforts at occupation that 1 make are wretched enough. Books 
and languages are not enough to fill a man’s life and thoughts.” 

” You have me,” said Daisy, faintly; but he did not even hear 
her. 

She turned from him with a sigh of despair, 

‘‘ Stay, Daisy,” he said; ” I want to discuss my plans with you. 
What do you say to returning to England next w'eeK?” 

” 1 say anything you like,” was the gentle reply. ‘‘ Y^our pleas- 
ure is always mine.” 

Again he did not seem to hear the reply. 

Daisy took courage. She raised ner face to his. 

” Tell me, Caro,” she said, ” how it is that we are so different? 
You say you have no interest in life here; I say that you fill my life 
so exclusively 1 have room for nothing else. What makes the 
difference?” 

He could have told her in one moment the difference lay betvieea 
love and the want of it. He laughed carelessly, not sufficiently in- 
terested in the question to think of it — not loving her well enough to 
understand what prompted it. 

” 1 do not know, Daisy; you should study metaphysics, it such 
questions interest you — they ate quite beyond me. vVhat train shall 
we travel by? 1 am almost longing to start.” 

How little he cared — dear Heaven, how little he loved her! Her 
face had grown pale even to the lips; he did not notice it. Her 
eyes were heavy with unshed tears; he did not see them. The girl- 
wife turned away with the bitterness of death in her heart: he saw 
notliing of it. He went on talking to her, while a desperate resolve 
formed itself in her mind. 

He did not love her. Life with her was so monotonous for him 
he could not endure it; she was but a burden to him. Why he had 
married her Heaven only knew — she did not; she could not fathom 
the motive. She w^as a burden to him, entering on this new' life, 
this fresh phase of his existence. She wmuld not intrude herself on 
him; he should go to England without her. At first the idea over- 
whelmed her; tlien she thought to herself it w'ould be a fair test of 
his love. If he refused to allow her to remain, then she should 
know that, in spite of all appearances, he loved her. If, on the con- 
trary, he was willing to go without her, then she should know he 
did not care for her. 


BETWEEN TWO LOVES. 


87 


There was a nightingale singing in Ihe darkening wood, there 
was a sweet, western wind biekhing over the flowers that evening 
when Daisy tried her test. 

“ Caro,” she said, ” I have something to say to you.” 

” 1 am listening, Daisy,” he replied. 

” I do not want to go back to England with you just yet; 1 would 
rather stay here for a short time.” 

Her heart was beating so quickly and so loudly, it seemed to her 
that he must hear it; her pulse throbbed— it seemed that her very 
soul was listening for the answer that w^as to be so much or so little 
to her. He did not seem much surprised, and there was no start of 
dismay, no exclamation of wonder; he did not even turn around 
to see if she were jesting or not. 

‘‘You do not want to go to England. Why, Daisy, are you in 
love with this land of the olive and the vine?” 

‘‘ Should .you mind going without me?” Daisy asked, falteringly. 

” Mind! JNo, not at all. 1 only mind one thing, Daisy, as you 
phrase it— that is, that you should in every respect please yourself.” 

” J wish 1 had no self to please,” said Daisy. ‘‘ And, Caro, you 
are quite sure — ” 

” Yes; 1 am sure. 1 am equally pleased whether you remain here 
or go with me.” 

Something like an excess of despair came over her; she said to 
herself that it would be better if she could know the truth, the 
W'hole of it, at once. 

‘‘ Y’ou wdll not miss me, Caro?” she said. 

The wistful look of the tender eyes, the wistful sound of her low 
voice, were all unheeded b}^ him. He felt some slight wonder, if 
the real truth be told, some slight pique, that Daisy could do so w^il 
without him — Daisy, wiio had always seemed wrapped up in him, 
who had professed herself dull and unhappy if he were only half an 
hour away. He felt something like surprise; it w^as so new for 
Daisy to be indifferent to him. It was a lady’s whim, he supposed, 
and, as such, he ought not to wmnder at it. 

” Shall 1 miss you, Daisy?” he repeated. ‘‘ The matter is so 
entirely one of your own choosing, 1 can not say. 1 shall be very 
much occupied on my return to England. You can remain here 
for the summer, if you like, and 1 wdll come for you at the end ot 
autumn.” 

” Very well,” said Daisy, faintly. ‘‘ Beseemed glad that 1 should 
remain; he seemed pleased to be without me; he cares nothing 
about it.” 

She turned away lest he should read the sorrow on her face. He 
w^ent on talking to her about the journey wdlh all the calm uncon- 
cern imaginable. 

” You must send some handsome presents to your mother, 
Daisy,” he said; ‘‘though 1 suppose she would rather have one 
look at 3mur face than anything you could send her.” 

‘‘ My poor mother!” said Daisy. ‘‘ She did love me.” 

‘‘ Ot course she did,” he replied, not understanding the gist of 
her speech. ‘‘1 should like you to choose her sopiething— a Imid- 
some black velvet dress.’* 


88 


BETWEEN TAVO LOVES. 


“ That would not be suitable for ber,” interrupted Daisy; “it 
would be too ^rand.” 

“AVewill risk it,” said Sir Clinton, “and 1 shall go down to 
Fernvale myself to take it.” 

“ Shall you?” asked Daisy, her pale face brightening. 

“ Yes, and I shall tell your mother you are so greatly in love with 
this fair land of France that you could not leave it, even for her.” 
And that was all he understood about it. 


CHAPTER XXIV. 

silt CLINTON SURPRISED. 

!Never a word said Daisy. She helped her husband in all his 
packing, she arranged his books and papers. 

“ 1 need not take those,” said Sir Clinton. “ 1 shall be back in 
the autumn; 1 can take them then.” 

She did not complain or reproach him, but dfly by day she grew 
poorer and thinner; her eyes grew more sad, her smile came less 
freguently. He was kind to her. but he did not notice the change; 
even had he done so, he would ne7er have attributed it to anything 
connected with himself. It was her own wish to remain — he did 
not know that that wish was prompted by his indillerence to her. 
She saw that from the hour he decided on returning to England, his 
spirits grew higher and lighter; she heard him singing once, some 
sweet little snatch of song— a thing he had never done since they 
had been married; he generally w^alked about like a man overbur- 
dened with gloom. He sung and laughed, he talked gayly about 
some friends whom he hoped to meet, he seemed better and brighter 
than he had been for years. 

“ He is relieved to get away from me,” thought Dais}’’, “ the very 
thought of it has cheered him. Why did he marry me?” 

lie made continual careless references to the time when he should 
be gone, unconscious that each one was as a sword in his young 
wife’s heart. Then the day came when his preparations were all com- 
pleted, and it was time to start. 

He was cheerful and smiling when he went to bid |ier adieu. 

“ You are quite sure, Daisy, that you do not repent?” he said. 
“It is not too late, if you would like to go; I will wait until to- 
morrow.*’ 

“ 1 do not repent,” she replied. “ Y^ou will enjoy being by your- 
self.” 

Pie did not contradict it, though she would have given the whole 
world to have heard him say it was not so. 

% He held her tight in his arms, and kissed her. 

“ Good-by, Daisy,” lie said; “ take care of yourself, enjoy your- 
self, have everything you want; and if you feel dull, be "sure that 
you write and tell me so; then 1 shall come for you at once.” 

The next moment he was gone. If he had turned his head, he 
would have seen that Daisy, his wife, had fallen like one dead to 
the ground^ but he never turned to look at her, and so went on to 
hi8 doom, * 


BETWEEN TWO LOVES. 


89 


It was strange to be in England again, to bear the well-known 
tongue on all sides, to see the lamiliar while clifts, to teel at 
home. A few hours and he was in London— London, the scene ot 
his lov'e and his sorrow. IVIan-like, the first place he went to was 
his club; there he knew that he should hear all the news, all the 
rumors of ihe day; there, without having to ask any questions him- 
self, he would hear all there was to tell. 

He was most warmly welcomed. Sir Clinton Adair had always 
been a great favorite in societj’’, and, when he was seen once again 
at the club, every one greeted him with delight. Where had he 
been? What had he been doing? He was overwhelmed with ques- 
tions. What had induced him to leave England so suddenly? 
W hat made him stay away so long? He evaded all those questions 
— answered them jestingly, then sat dovvn with a daily journal in 
his hands. One of his oldest friends. Sir Gregory Hartwell, came 
in. and was astounded at seeing him. 

“ 1 began to fancy, Adair, that we should never see you again. 
Where on earth have you been? What have you been doing ^l^^ay 
from home so long? We have heard all kinds of rumors about you.” 

*' Hone of them true,” said Sir Clinton. ” The truth is, 1 had a 
severe accident, then a long illness; 1 went to France to recruit tny- 
self, and found myself so happy there I did not care to come home 
There is no mystery in my absence, you see.” 

‘‘ But why did you never write to any of us?” 

” 1 should imagine that the principal reason was because 1 had 
nothing to say,” replied Sir Clinton, laughingly. ” i suppose the 
world at home has gone on just as though 1 had been in it?” 

” 1 suppose so; we are none of us missed tor long— not even the 
best and cleverest. You have just reached home in time for ilie 
close of the season. 1 was at a grand ball last evening.” 

‘‘ Where was that?” asked Sir Clinton. 

It was one given by the Duchess of Rosecarn. She has given by 
far the best balls of the season.” 

He had nerved himself to hear her name; it might even be that 
he sliould be compelled to look on her face or to speak to hei ; it 
was quite impossible to tell what complications might arise. He 
had steeled himself, as he honestly believed. 

” The Duchess ot Rosecarn?” he said. ” 1 knew both the duke 
and the duchess when I left England.” 

‘‘ They tvere only married last j^ear.” said Sir Gregory. 

‘‘ They were not married when I knew them, although there was 
some ide‘a of it even then. How is the duke?” 

He longed to say ‘‘ flow is the duchess?” but his courage failed 
him. His heart beat, his pulses thrilled at the sound ot her name. 
He did not even hear Sir Gregory’s answer. 

” What folly!” he said to himself. ‘‘ 1, who ought to be, who 
swore to be, strong! 1 will— I will be master of myself! Heitlier 
her name, nor her face, nor her voice shall have power to move 
me!” 

‘‘How is the duchess?” he asked; and his friend wondered at 
the strange tone of his voice. 

‘‘ She is what she always promised to be, the prettiest woman iu 
London, and, 1 think, one of the most popular, too.” 


90 


two loves. 


“ She was always that,” said Sir Clinton. 

‘‘No, not always, 1 think,” replied Sir Gregory. “She altered 
very much after her maniage.” 

Then he went on to speak ot some other friends whom Sir Clin- 
ton had known. 

” Altered since her marriage! How was that? — in what way?” 
he tried to think. ‘‘Was she more or less beautiful, more or less 
amiable, more or less proud? How had she altered?” 

He would have given au.ything to know, not that it concerned 
him particularly, but it is always Interesting to hear ot a change in 
a person one has known well. 

He was overwhelmed with invitations, but he steadfastly refused 
them. He was not going to place himself in the way of temptation. 
Lady Sant pressed him to come to her entertainments. 

” You will meet the Duke and Duchess of Kosecarn,” she said, 
‘‘ and the duke is so much improved since his marriage.” 

‘‘ It is a great inducement,” he replied, ‘‘ but 1 must decline.” 

He laughed bitterly to himself when Lady Sant had gone away. 

‘‘ So much improved, has he? Lady j\lay has improved him, I 
suppose — taught him elocution, perhaps, among other accomplish- 
ments! 1 did not know that there was room for improvement In 
his grace!” 

Ede began to wonder if, after all, he had done wisely in returning. 
If he was to hear continually about Lady May, he had better have 
remained in France. 

Two nights afterward he w'^ent with some friends to a concert, 
given at the mansion of a great princess, for a charitable purpose. 
Sir Gregory joined him there. 

” We shall have all the celebrities of London here to-night,” he 
said, ‘‘ and, among others, the Duke and Duchess of Kosecarn.” 

‘‘ I do not think 1 shall remain,” he said, hastily. 

He wars a strong man, but the thought of seeing her made him 
tremble like a reed in the wind. Then he reproached himself again 
for folly, for weakness. 

‘‘ What is she to me now?” he said — ” only another man’s wdfe, 
just as 1 am another woman's husband. What can it matter 
whether I see her or not?” 

‘‘ There is the duke,” said Sir Gregory, ‘‘ and the duchess, too. 
She is talking to Ltidy Sant, and Lady Sant is my particular aver- 
sion.” 

She w'as there. He did not look immediately, for a blood-red 
mist came before his eyes, the noise ot rushing waters in his ears; 
he trembled like a leaf, then clinched his hands, and bit his lips, 
to keep himself steady. 

‘‘ The duchess looks very lovely to-niaht,” said Sir Gregory ; ” in 
my idea, she is the best-dressed woman in London.” 

He remembered her— dear Heaven! how well he remembered her, 
as she stood in the full glare ot the light, her jewels gleaming, her 
proud eyes Hashing scorn! How well he remembered the queenly 
gesture, the wave of the white hand, the cruel, cutting, bitter words 
that came from her lips! Was he mad, to ruir the risk of meeting 
her again? 

‘‘ Do you think the duchess much changed?” asked Sir Gregory. 


iJETWEEiT TWO LOVES. 91 

Then he raised his eyes and looked. Great fleaven, that was not 
Lady May! 

“ 1 do not see the duchess,” he said, in a strange voice. 

” Do you see the lady in the cream- colored brocade?— that is the 
duchess. She has a diamond tiara. She is talking to Lady Sant — 
jmu know Lady Sant?” 

” Ves,” he replied, slowly; ”1 know Lady Sant. Is that lady 
the Ducliess of Rosecarn?” 

‘‘ Yes; 1 thought you said y’ou knew her,” said Sir Gregory, al- 
most impatiently. ” She was one of the Landaies — Lady Anne 
Landale— and she has improved wonderfully since she became 
Duchess of Rosecarn.” 

‘‘That was not the lady 1 expected to see,” said Sir Clinton, 
slowly. 

Sir Gregory laughed. 

‘‘ Whom did you think the duke had married, then?” 

‘‘ 1 fancied 1 had lieard that he was engaged to some one else, but 
1 may have been mistaken.” 

He was beginning to speak slowly; it seemed to him that the life- 
blood was freezing in his veins— that his lips were growing stiff 
and would not move. 

‘‘ 1 never heard that the duke was engaged to any one else. He 
was in love with Miss Stanhope, people said, and with Lady May 
Trevlyn; but he was never engaged to either of them.” 

Great drops stood on his forehead. He clutched the back of a 
chair, and leaned heavily upon it. 

‘‘ 1 read it — I remember now,” he said. ” I read it in one of the 
papers that he was to marry—” 

Then he stopped abruptly; not to have saved his life could he 
have uttered the name. 

” That he was to marry Lady May Trevlyn,” said Sir Gregory, 
coolIy^ ‘‘ Yes, 1 remember reading that; but it was contradicted 
the next day.” 

” Then it was not true?” said Sir Clinton. 

“ True! How could it be true? Your wits have left you, Adair. 
How could it be true when he married Lady Anne? 1 know that 
he admired Lady Trevlyn very much, but she would have nothing 
to say to him.” 

‘‘ Why?” he asked, in a hoarse voice, quite unlike his own. 

‘‘Ido not know,” replied Sir Gregory, lightly. ‘‘People were 
kind enough to say it was because she iiked some one else. What 
has come to you, Adair? What are you looking ai? 1 believe you 
have left vour sense, and reason, and wits all in France.” 

‘‘ This London world is new to me,” he said. 

Just then the Duke of Rosecarn saw him, and came across the 
room to greet him. 

‘‘ Y'^ou are an entire stranger. Sir Clinton,” he said; ‘‘you have 
had time to travel over the world. You find a great many changes 
among us. Let me introduce you to the duchess.’^ 

And, before Sir Clinton could answer, he was bowdng to a very 
lovely lady, with pink and white face, golden brown hair, and laugh- 
ing eyes. How different to Lady May! He never remembered what 
Jic said to her, and the duchess must have thought him strange, for 


BETWEEN TWO LOVES. 


92 

when he came to a full consciousness of what was passing around 
him, she w^as asking him if he had been ill. 

tic never knew either how the night went on. People spoke to 
liim, and he answered them; they greeted him, and he replied to 
their greeting; but one idea possessed^, one thought engrossed him — 
after all, Lady May had not married his rival! 


CHAPTER XXV. 

“if I LOST, HE HAS NOT WON.” 

A liEAUTiFUL morning, and Sir Clinton Adair sat at his sumptu- 
ously appointed breakfast-table. A bright, warm, sunny morning, 
the world laughing under the lovely light of the sun. He had taken 
up the papers one after another, and in each of them found an an- 
nouncement of his arrival. 

“ Sir Clinton Adair arrived from the Continent on the 23d. “ 

Kis coming home, therefore, w’ould not long be a secret. 

A curious feeling was on him; gradually he awoke to a new feel- 
ing of life; a new sensaVou, as ot hope and amhition, stirred within 
him. It was .such a busy world, a bright, busy, hopeful W'orld; 
men all seemed intent on business or pleasure; there was action, 
energy, animation — how different from the life of stagnation he had 
been living at Leville. He shuddered as he thought of it. 

“ After all,”' he said to himself, “ men are born to be men, not 
hermits. ” 

He knew tliat he should never have gone through the hermit’s 
stage ot his existence but for the love and the sorrow that had 
driven him mad. 

His return would be a matter ot public gossip to-day, to-morrow 
forgotten; but one thing struck him, he must declare his marriage; 
no one here in England knew anything about it, and every nioment 
in which the announcement was delayed it became more diflicult. 
Why, he could not tell. Daisy was a" lovely, lovable girl, devoted 
to him; she was graceful and accomplished, he had no need to feel 
ashamed ot her; no one knew anything ot her birth or connections, 
neither was there any need for them to know. He asked himself, 
over and over again, how it was that he disliked the idea of an- 
nouncing it? Perhaps he feared that he w'ould be teased for leaving 
this beautiful young wife far away; perhaps he disliked the idea of 
making himself the subject of conversation. Whatever it was. Sir 
Clinton thoroughly disliked the task. 

“ 1 will do it to-moriow,” he said; “ a tew hours’ peace is all 1 
ask.” 

He looked through the “ Fashionable Intelligence;” there w’as no 
news ot Lady May. He longed to ask. He thought to himself that 
he would spend the morning at nis club; there lie should probably 
hear some news of her— .she w’as one ot those of whom men ucvei 
w’eary in speaking. On his way there he met one or two old friends. 

He wmuld have given the whole world for strength to have asked 
one of them something of Lady May— to have thrown his head 
l)ack, with a careless, .jaunty air, and have asked; 


BETWEEN TWO LOVES. 


93 


“ By tlie way, how is Lady May Trevlyn? Is she married yel ?” 

He even, in the solitude of his own room, tried how the words 
would sound; he said them aloud, blushing hon-ibly at his own 
lolly. Even there alone, with no eye to see him, no ear to hear him 
— even there he stammered over the words. 

No, it was impossible; he gave up the idea— of no man or woman 
living could he ask the question, to no man or woman could he 
speak of his lost, dear love in cool, unconcerned tones. He must 
trust to chance; surely thereat the club, where they discussed every 
one and everything, thej’ would talk of Lady May. 

He was profuse in bis greetings, always hoping that in return for 
w^hat he had said some one would speak of J.ady May. It would 
have seemed as though there was a general conspiracy not to men- 
tion her name; no one even alluded to her. All the gossip of the 
day was freely and fully discussed— the Huchesa of Rosecarn’s ball, 
Lady Leeson’s party, the dance at Lord Rushton’s — but of the one 
subject of which he thirsted with his whole soul to hear there was 
not a sound. 

He listened intently, hardly losing one word that was said on 
either side of him; he would fain have turned to them and cried: 

“ Tell me something of Lady May 1” 

He asked questions that he thought would lead to the subject, but 
they failed. So far as learning one word of his beautiful, lost love 
was concerned, the whole morning w'as a failure. He could not 
help feeling touched by the warm welcome given to him every- 
where— he was literally inc( nvenicnced with invitations. 

Where had he been? What had he been doing? Where had he 
hidden himself? 

His hand was grasped in friendship a hundred times; one pressed 
him to dine, another begged for the evening. In short. Sir Clinton 
Adair was half betvildered b}’’ the warm welconre extended to him. 

“And this is the w'orld I flew from, he thought to himself; 
“ these are the friends I left in disgust, simply because a woman’s 
folly had driven me mad.” 

lie lunched with Colonel Dempster, and as they sal at the table 
he tried hard to introduce the name of Lady May. The gallant 
colonel talked of all the belles and beauties, but never mentioned 
her. 

“ It must be,” thought Sir Clinton, “ that she has married and 
gone abroad. 1 can not account for it in any other way.” 

He rode out after lunch, and accepted an invitation to dine at 
Lord Mei loch’s. 

“ Just a quiet bachelor party,” said his lordship. “ I like a 
bachelor’s dinner myself. You can say what you like, and you arc 
not conipelled to waste the best part of your time in attending on 
ladies.” 

At a bachelor’s dinner there was some hope ; as a rule, ladies were 
pretty freely discussed on such occasions. Surely they would, 
among others, mention the Lady May. 

The dinner was a gay one; piquant little bits of scandal were 
daintily discussed, a reputation went with each glass of wine, the 
principal divorce cases of the day were freely talked of, probable 
divorce cases were canvassed, broken engagements plainly com* 


94 


BETWEEN TWO LOVES. 


merited upon; in fact, the discussion was eminently pleasant, and 
each gentleman retired much edified by it. 

Yet he never heard the name ot Lady May. So, when the dinner 
was over and the laugh caused by the last repartee had died away, 
when the guests had all departed. Sir Clinton said to himself that he 
would just waliv round by CliHe House and see if anything was to 
be discovered ot Lady May. 

He lighted his cigar and went. CliSe House was all in darkness. 
How his heart beat as he looked at the familiar windows, the door, 
the pretty balconies. Was she there, his fair, lost love? 

He stood tor sometime opposite the house, then he walked up and 
down the pavement, then he flung his cigar away with a low cry, 

“ Great Heaven!” he said, ” what a dupe i am. Have I forgot- 
ten that 1 am a married man — a married man— and the dearest little 
wife in all the world is waiting for me away among the vines and 
olives? Am 1 so weak or so mad that even the air ot this place 
drives me mad again? 1 will go home and write to Daisy.” 

He walked down the broad, beautitul road; carriages containing 
beautifully dressed and richly jeweled women flashed pa t him; the 
night was odorous, wet with dew, sweet with the breath of flowers, 
fragrant with the perfume of the young green leaves; a thousand 
stars shone in the sky — sweet, pure eyes that looked down on him 
with their holy light, and seemed to stop the mad fever thrilling in 
his veins. 

He would go home and write to Daisy — sweet, winsome Daisy, 
who had loved him so dearly. What need even to w^aste a thought 
on false Lady May? A whole world lay between them now. Even 
if he were to meet her face to face it would not be worth his while 
to stop and address her; she was nothing to him now. Yet — and 
liis heart beat with a great throb of passionate delight — yet she had 
not married the Duke of Rosecarn after all. 

” 1 am glad that 1 came to England,” he said, “ it it be only for 
the sake of knowing that; not, of course, that it matters iu tbe least 
to me, not the least, but 1 am pleased to know it; it 1 lost, he has 
not won.” 

So he would go home and write to Daisy. He wondered, just a 
little, if she had gone to the opera—Lady May he meant — there 
would be no harm in looking round. He went in ; he looked round 
the boxes, where he saw some ot the loveliest taces in England, but 
no Lady May. 

” 1 should like to see her just for once.” he thought, his mood 
changed by continual disappointment. ” The desire to see her has 
been like a thirst; one look at her might quench it. 1 should like 
to see her just for once.” . 

If he were to meet her, he said to himself, he would look coldly 
inker face and pass her without word or sign; or, better still, be 
would stop, hold out his hand in greeting to her, speak coldly, 
quietly, and, after some tew minutes, introduce his wife’s name! 
That would pique her most; women never like to know that they 
have lost power; they never like (o know that a victim has escaped 
them. And he said to himself, with a light, bitter, mocking laugh: 

” She shall see how completely I have escaped from her.” 

He went home at last to write to Daisy. Sir (Uintou Adair’s 


between two loves. 


95 


town house was a very beautiful one; it w^as called Litdnle 
House, as it had once been inhabited by the earl of that name. As 
soon as his engagement to Lady May had become a certainty, he 
purchased Litdale House and fitted it up most magnificently; he had 
lavished a small fortune on it; even then itdid not seem to him good 
enough for bis fair young love. He entered his magnificent house 
with a feeling ot desolation not to be expressed in words. 

Of course there was every comfort, every luxury— yir Clinton 
cared tor none of it. There was an iced elaret cup prepared for him; 
he moved it impatiently away; he did not care for it; he was saying 
to himself that it he had only heard her name, he should have been 
contented. 

He went into his own study, the room that he had intended, even 
when married, to use entirely for himself; here it w'ould be easy to 
write to Daisy — there was nothiiiir to distract his thoughts. 

“ 1 shall not want anything, Adolphe,” he said; ” it is not late, 
not ten o’clock; how long the hours are. 1 will ring when 1 re- 
quire you; 1 have some letters to write.” 

At last he was seated at the writing-table, before him a fair, 
white sheet of paper, pens, and ink. He must tell Daisy that he 
had arrived safely, and, of course, add a few words to say how 
much he had missed her — tnat would only be simple kindness; he 
would finish his cigar before he began. How long had letter- writing 
been so great a nuisance to him? He lay back in his chair, mus- 
ing again; how’ strange that no one spoke ot her, that of all the par- 
ties and balls discussed there was no mention made of her. He had 
heard ot no particular marriages, no one seemed to be missing from 
the circles; could it be that she had not been to London for the sea- 
son at all and so had faded from the fickle mind of the fickle 
world? 

He dipped his pen in the ink, sighing to himself, trying to recall 
his scattered thoughts, saying to himself that he had to write to 
Daisy. Surely the spirit of unrest was on him; he had written so 
far as “ My dear Daisy,” when he was dreaming again. 

Sir Clinton rose from his chair. 

” This will not do,” he said; ” 1 have no excuse for such foll.y. 
1 declare before Heaven that 1 am ashamed of myself. 1 have 
P(;en— how many hours in London? and yet during that time 1 have 
thought of no single thing except Lady May. This will not do. 1 
had better go back to France again.” 

But it w'as useless attempting to w'rite. Sir Clinton Adair went 
abruptly out ot his study; he must write on the morrow; he would 
go to tlie drawing-room and nod. 

He went, hating himself for his weakness and folly, yet unable 
to conquer them. 


CHAPTER XXVl. 

A PHOUD W'OWAN HUMBLED. 

The lamps were not all lighted in that beautiful room. It was a 
loom that \vould have charmed an artist; no gaudy coloring, no 
vulgar gilding, no inartistic mass ot colors, tso far as a room could 


90 


BETWEEN TWO LOVES. 


be n poem, this was one. It was almost all white— white silk, 
white Jace, intermixed with a pale shade of amber. There were 
few pictures, but they were of the best. The chief charm of the 
room was, perhaps, its profusion of flowers— they were everywhere, 
great stauds (»f white hyacinths, vases filled with rich gladiolus, 
heliotrope, and verbena; it was a grateful paradise of peifume. 

One of the lamps was lighted, and filled the larire room with a 
soft, pearly light through which the flowers gleamed palely. Two 
of the windows were opened, and one saw the tall, green trees, 
stretching far and wide, the blue sky, v ith its golden stars. 

Sir Clinton drew an eas 3 '^-chair to the open window^ and sat down 
to think; those pale, golden stars said much to him. flow long he 
had been there he did not know, when his valet, Adolphe, entered 
llie room. 

“ Sir Clinton,” he said, ” there is a lady who wishes to see you.” 

‘‘ A. lady!” he said, rather startled by the intelligence; ” at this 
hour?” 

” It is only just ten, sir,” said Adolphe, ” and the lady wishes me 
to say that she has come from some distance, and her business is 
imperative.” 

” There must be a mistake,” he said, composedly. ” 1 know no 
lady who would come from a distance; I know no business that is 
imperative. Does she give no name, Adolphe?” 

” No, bir Clinton, she would not give name or card.” 

‘‘ Do 3 mu know her?” he asked again. ” Have 3 'ou seen her be- 
fore?” 

” ] can not tell. Sir Clinton. She wears a thick veil, and speaks 
in a strange, muffled voice. I can not tell whether 1 have seen her 
or not.” 

Sir Clinton looked, as he felt, annoyed. 

” There is no peace in London,” he said. ” Some absurd sub- 
scription for a bazaar, or some nonsense of the kind, i suppose 1 
must see her.” 

”1 think so. Sir Clinton,” was the deliberate answer; “she 
seems like one who will not go until she has seen you.” 

” A duchess masquerading, or a countess in search of recruits for 
a ball,” said Sir Clinton to himself. 

Adolphe stood respectfully waiting, yet eying his master with keen 
curiosity. 

” Show her in,” said Sir Clinton, abruptly. ‘‘ Another time say 
1 am not in— i am in no humor for follies.” 

Adolphe bowed — he would have bowled just the same had Sir 
Clinton refused to see her; he was one of those well-trained serv- 
ants who have eyes, yet do not see— ears, 3 ^et never hear — sense and 
reason, yet never apply them to the affairs of their masters, lie 
was nr>t gone very long; w’hen he returned he ushered in a tall, 
slender, black figure. He did not linger, as some servants would 
have done, full of curiosity, under the pretense of arranging a blind 
or a chair. He bowed and quitted the room, closing the door alter 
him. 

Sir Clinton rose, and bowed somewhat stiffly. 

” I beg your pardon,” he said; ‘‘ 1 really am quite at a loss to 
know — ” 


BET^yEEN TWO LOVES. 


97 

Then he paused; there was something familiar to him in that tall, 
slender tio:iire — true, it was draped in a large traveling-cloak, and a 
thioK veil covered the face— an indefinable something that caused 
his Heart to beat and his pulse to thrill/ He went one step nearer 
to her, then fell back in his chair. 

“ 1 am frightened,” lie said, holding up his hand. ” 1 am sore 
afraid.” 

The next moment she was kneeling at his feet; fair, white arms 
clasped round his arm; a lovely, fair young face was gazing with 
passionate joy into his. 

■‘Clinton, Clinton! do you not know me?” she cried. ‘‘Speak 
to me, dear. 1 have been praying and waiting for months and years 
to see you again. 1 have been praying, and wailing, and longing! 
Where have you been, love — where have you been?” 

Tears weie fast failing from the beautiful eyes; the sweet lips 
that he remembered as so scornful and so grand, were quivering; 
the lovely face that he had never touched, sa^e once, was near his, 
at d the white, tender arms round him. Was he mad? Was it a 
dream? W as he asleep? 

” May!” he said, wonderingly. ” Lady — Lady May!” 

” Na.y,” she said, ” not Lady May, but your own May — the ?day 
who found out when you had gone from her that her whole life 
was bound in yours; the IVIay who has longed for your return as 
the flowers long tor dew. Oh, my love, 1 thought I had lost you.” 

She laid her fair, flower-like face on his hands and kissed them, 
lie thought himself still in a dream. She tightened the clasp of her 
white arms round his, and he thought he was dreaming still. The 
dark traveling-cloak fell to the floor, and he saw the graceful, slen- 
der figure. She had thrown the hat and veil aside; he saw the 
golden head and beautiful face; he thought still that he was in a 
dream, llis head whirls, his brain burns, his lieart beats. He- 
member how he had loved her, how he had worshiped her, and she 
was here, kneeling at his feet, clasping his hands, kissing them with 
her beautiful lips, she who had been liis idol. 

” You will never call me proud or cold again?” she says. ‘‘ Ch, 
Clinton, how could you go away, and stay away so long? Oh, love, 
how could you leave me? You must have known that 1 should be 
sorry. I own frankly that 1 w’^as quite in the wrong. 1 ought never 
to have acted in that wretched play. 1 did not enjoy it, believe me, 
Clinton, not in the least. 1 was miserable all the time, thinking of 
you, love, thinking of you,” 

Again she kisses the hands so tightly clasped in her own, and 
again he makes no answer — he is so stunned, too bewildered for 
that. 

‘‘ If you had not been quite so angry, love, 1 should have told 
you some evening how soiry 1 was; but you scolded me, and 1 am 
proud. 1 have been spoiled by too much flattery, but 1 never 
thought you would leave me, love — never,” 

He is beginning to recover now, and he says, in a trembling voice: 

” Is it you, reailv you, May?” 

‘‘Yes, really; and, (fiinton, 1 made up my mind that, let you 
remain away as long as you would, 1 would wait for you, and 1 
come here and kneel by you until you promise to forgive me.” 

4 


98 


BETWEEN TWO LOVES. 


Ifo makes no answer; it il were B) save his life he could not speak 
one word. She does not seem to requiie it. 

“ i have been so unhappy,” she said, simply. ” Miss Lockwood 
said 1 deserved to be, and I have been. 1 do not think 1 have ever 
enjoyed one single rrioment since that night. Sir Clinton, iny love, 
my love! 1 ha^e come to humble myself before you, lo lay all my 
pride at your teet, to beg of you to forgive me, and to love me a 
little bit” 

She looked so beautiful, so bewitching inhersweet, sliy fondness, 
her contrition, her smiles, and her tears, that he grew more and 
more bewildered. He is lost— hopelessly lost. 

” I promise you,” she said, ” that if you will forgive me, 1 will 
be as humble as hitherto 1. have been proud: 1 will be submissive 
to every wish of yours — obedient as a child. You will forgive me, 
love, will you notV” 

She looked up at him then, and the lovely eyes were full of pas- 
sion, and love, and tenderness; they wore just such a look as once, 
in his wildest dreams, he had hoped to win from her; and they were 
such glorious eyes, so large, so liquid, so bright, he was himself 
again for one half minute, as he gazed in tiieir beautiful depths. 
Then, speaking slowly, as though lie were barely conscious ol his 
words, he says: 

“ Then you are not married. May?” 

” Married!” she repeated, with a little laugh, her eyes gleaming 
through her tears. “How could 1 be married while you were 
away? 1 may have been naughty and saucy, cold and proud, but 
it never entered my mind to marry any one but you, Clinton — 
never!” 

” 1 thought you w^ere married to the Duke of Hosecarn. 1 am 
sure tliat 1 saw something about it in the paper — an announcement 
ot it.” 

‘‘ You must also have seen the contradiclion,” she said. “ 1 was 
very an.nry about it. 1 marry the Duke of Hosecarn! Not 1, were 
lie lifty times a duke. 1 never thought of marrying any one but 
you, Clinton.” 

‘‘ 1 never read the contradiction,” he said. 

“And you staged aw'ay because you thought 1 had married the 
duke? Shame on you, Clinton! You told me once that wunnen 
played at love; you see now how false it is. You, on a mere news- 
paper report, believed me married, and 1 have been all the time as 
true to you as the stars to their course. M hich of us has played at 
love, you or 1?” 

He did not answer her, for he could scarcely yet realize the be- 
wildering bliss of her presence, the reality of her sweet, shy caresses, 
her loving, tender words. He ventured to touch her hand ; it w^as 
more to see if it w^ere real than anything else. She glanced up at 
him shyly. 

” 1 was cold to you, proud, and hard, and unkind— nay, I was 
cruel; but 1 was only a foolish girl, and 1 liked to exercise my 
pow’er over you — 1 tbink 1 gloried in il — and my coldness, my pride 
has made you so much afraid of me that you dare hardly touch my 
hand. Oh, Clinton, Clinton, my love, whom 1 wounded so cruelly, 


BETWEEN TWO LOVES. 99 

Lend your head— stoop down, love, and kiss my lips— the lips that 
should have burned with the cruel words they said to you!” 

lie could not refuse; no thought of refusal came to him; he was 
simply lost and bewildered, afraid lest he should wake and tind it 
all a dream. For the second time in his life his lips touched hers, 
and tlien all the passionate love of his heart seemed to waken and 
burst into passionate flame. 

” My darling, my darling!” he cried, holding the blushing, 
flower-like face between his hands, drinking in its loveliness as a 
man dying of thirst drinks water. ‘‘ My darling!” he repeated, for 
he seemed to have lost the power of using words freely. 

She smiled through her tears. 

” Now 1 am content,” she says. You seemed so strange at 
first that 1 felt afraid you would not be friendly; but you are my 
friend, my love, are you not?” 

For answer he kisses the red, sweet mouth, the white forehead, 
the lovely cheeks, the golden hair, the white hands— kisses them as 
a djdng mother kisses her only child. 

” The idea,” she continues, in a low, sweet tone, ” of you even 
thinking that 1 would marry the duke! You will laugh at me, 
Clinton, without doubt, but do you remember the evening you first 
kissed me, after 1 had promised to marry you?” 

” 1 remember,” he said. 

” Well, that kiss 1 considered as you did, that it was our betrothal. 
You thought the Duke of Rosecarn kissed me in the play; he never 
did — it was only pretense; he dared not. And listen, love, listen — 
you have been away a long time, yet you may take the kiss from my 
lips you laid on them then. Tliey have never been touched since 
by man, woman, or child; 1 have kept them, love, for you.” 

" What can he do but bend down again and do what she bids him, 
lake the kiss back again. Tlien he remembers that she is kneeling, 
and he says: 

” May, my darling, let me find 5’ou a chair.” 

But she flashes a laughing glance at him. 

” No,” she says. ”1 have been a naughty child, and 1 shall re- 
main here unlil I am forgiven.” 

‘‘ You are forgiven,” he replied. 

“Quite?” asks Lady May. 

And his answer is not put in words. 

He has quite forgotten Daisy. Heaven help and pity him! For- 
gotten his marriage, forgotten Daisy — everything except his beauti- 
ful, bewildering love. 


CHAPTER XXVll. 

TOO LATE. 

“ 1 HAVE won my pardon hardly,” she said, in a laughing voice. 
“ I should suppose the laws of decoruin are quite set aside by this 
visit; but Miss Lockwood knows about it— 1 told her, and she said 
that, under the circumstances, it wmuld not be wrong.” 

“ It could not be wrong,” said Sir Clinton. 

“ Some might say that 1 could have written. So 1 might, but so 


100 


BETWEEN TWO LOVES. 


many accidents happen to letters — some arc lost, some delayed; be- 
sides, a letter could not say so much as 1 can myselt. 1 read of 
your arrival this morning in the ‘ Court Gazette ’ — wo are staying 
at Trevlyn Nest just now — and the moment 1 read it 1 cried out 
to JMiss Lockwood, ‘ He is come! he is come!’ She was pleased, 
too — she always loved you. What do you think L did, Clinton? — 
I, whom the world calls proud, cold Lady May?” 

I can not tell,” he answered, looking at the beautiful face, still 
bewildered teyond the power of thought. 

‘‘1— the cold, proud *Lady May, the haughty girl who sent you 
awa}" — 1 took that paper in my hands, Clinton, and 1 kissed every 
letter in your name.” 

She laughed a little, low, triumphant laugh. 

” Does not that shoA',” she said, ” how much 1 love you? Then 
1 said to Miss Lockwood that 1 would wait no longer— that 1 had 
waited months and years— hut that 1 should come to London at 
once and see you. She came with me; she has driven to Clifle 
House, and 1 came here. Sne said it would only take a few words 
to make all right again, and those few words she advised me to 
speak myself. You see, Clinton, it is quite safe; your servants will 
never dream of me, and 1 shall go back to Cliffe House without any 
one suspecting me. 1 never knew how much safety there was in a 
thick veil before.” 

” 1 knew 3 "ou,” he said, slowly. 

‘‘ Ah, yea — you, because you love me, and ‘ love has eyes;’ but 
no one else would.” 

Then she passed her hand over his brow and his hair. 

” How thin j'ou are, Clinton,” she said, ” and j-our face has so 
many lines on it. It will be the work of my life to drive those 
lines away. How you have altereil! you look as though you have 
been through years of pain.” 

” So 1 have,” he said, in a low, soft voice; ” such years of pain! 
Oh! IMay, when 1 lost you 1 went mad; death would have been 
more merciful than the pain 1 suffered.” 

” It is all over now, dear,” she said, caressingly; ” 1 shall spend 
my life in trying to make you forget all about it; and after this, 
after to-night, we will never allude to. it again. It shall be all for- 
gotten and forgiven. You will never laugh at woman’s love again, 
Clinton, shall you? See how true, and how strong, and how tender 
it is!” 

” Never again. May,” he replied, with a sigh that was almost a 
sob; ” never again.” 

She drew her cloak from the floor with a little, low laugh of per- 
fect happiness. 

” IMiss Lockwood said once that perhaps you would never forgive 
me. I told her that you would never refuse. Why. that niglit 
when yon were so angry with me, if 1 had held out my hand again 
yon would have staj^ed.” 

” Yes, 1 would have stayed.” 

” Lnt, peihaps, after all, it may be tor the best; if it had not 
been tor this quarrel, and the sorrow, the pain of being parted from 
you, I should have always been proud and cold; it has taught me 


EETWEEif TWO LOVES. 


101 


such a lesson,” she coutlnucd, humbly, ” 1 shall make your love 
and 5 ^our happiness the study ot my life.” 

lie has been wrapped in a dream so beautiful, so delicious, lhat 
he hardly knows even when she rises, tor she has been kfieeliug all 
this time. 

” 1 must go,” she said. ”1 sliall not let you take me home, 
Clinton, because 1 do not wish any one to know where I have been; 
but to morrow you will like to come to Clihc House— come as 
early as you please, stay as long as you like. I have so much to 
say to you that it seems f»o me that my life will not be long enough 
to say it in.” 

Then she w’ent up to him, a clear light in her eyes, a humorous 
smile on her lips, a pure, sweet, tender soul reflected in her ctiarni- 
ing face. Once more she raised her white, fair arms, and laid them 
on his neck. 

” My love,” she said, very gravely and quietly, “ you have par- 
doned me, but 1 shall never pardon myself. What in the hour of 
my caprice and folly 1 refused you, 1 give you now— my whole 
heart, my w'hole love, my whole truth, my whole life; and when 
you ask me to be your wife 1 shall say ‘ j’-esl' ” 

He had forgotten his miserable marriage, forgotten Daisy, for- 
gotten everything but his .sweet and fair young love, who w^as 
humbling lierself so sweetly to him. At the word “wife” he 
woke up to a sudden, swift, keen sense of the truth. 

Great Heaven! how ciare he to stand with those pure arms around 
his neck, that tender face raised to his— he, wdio was a married 
man. In the swiftness of lightning he saw it all. Her love, the 
crown of his life, her sweet repentance, her tenderness, had all come 
too late — too late! 

He drew back from her with a terrible cry; a livid hue came over 
his face, his lips turned white as the lips of a dead man, but even 
as he drew back she follow'ed him. 

” What is it, love, what is it?” she asked. 

He tried. Heaven help him, he tried to speak ; he tried to say to 
her, ‘‘lam married,” but the cold, white lips were dumb, he could 
frame no wwd with them. 

She placed her soft, w^arm hand on his brow. 

‘‘ Why, Clinton,” she said, ” you are ill, I am quite sure What 
is it?” 

He tried again to say to her, ‘‘lam married,” but he could not. 
Looking at her in her fair 3 mung beauty, so happy, so loviim, with 
that glad light in her eyes, and that glad smile on her lips, he could 
not slay her with the w'ords. He could far rather have taken a hot 
iron and scarred her beautiful face— it w’ould have been easier to 
have taken a dagger and plungcil it into her wdiite breast than have 
said those words lo her just then. 

” Oh, madman that 1 have been!” he thought; but she was still 
looking at him with tender, lo7ing pily. 

He recovered himself by a terrible effort. 

‘‘ Are .you ill, Clinton?” she asked, anxiously. 

‘‘ Only a spasm,” he said; ” a spasm at the heart.” 

‘‘Hut that is yery dangerous. You must see a doctor; 1 shall 


102 BETWEEN TWO LOVES. 

insist upon it. 1 can not afford to lose you now that 1 have found 
you.” 

He looked at her. 

” Would you grieve so very much if you lost me now, May?” he 
said. 

She shook her charming head. 

” My answer will make you vain, 1 know,” she replied. ‘‘ Ves. 
1 am not exaggerating, Clinton— 1 think that 1 should die if 1 lost 
you again, or, if 1 did not die, 1 should never have another moment 
of happiness while 1 lived; that would almost be worse than death 
to me, for 1 love happiness.” 

” If 1 had died abroad,” he said, “ what then?” 

” Ah, then, dear, I must have submitted. It would have been 
Heaven’s will; but 1 should never have married, Clinton. If 1 had 
lost you in this world, 1 should have lived in the hope of finding 
you in the next. But I have not lost you, love.” 

” Suppose— only suppose. May — that in the interval 1 had for- 
gotten you — loved some one else?” 

“I can not fancy anything of the kind,” she said, laughingly. 
‘‘Better ask me to imagine that the stars fall, the sun refuses to 
shine, the tide to flow. 1 could not imagine such a thing even it I 
tried.” 

‘‘ But 1 have been long away,” he said. 

” That may be. Had you been twice as long it would not have 
mattered. You can not shake my faith in you, Clinton, jest as you 
will.” 

He could not disturb her sweet faith, her entire and perfect trust. 
She held out both her hands to him. 

‘‘ Good-night,” she said, with her charming smile. ” You have 
been very good to me, Clinton. Am 1 to go home and tell Miss 
Lockwood that you have quite forgiven me?” 

‘‘ You may tell Miss Lockw'ood that 1 say 3^011 are an angel,” he 
replied. ‘‘ May, let me go with you. 1 can not let 3 ’^ou go alone.’ 

‘‘ But I want to keep my visit a secret.” 

‘‘So it shall be, dear. You have got a cab at the door, 1 sup- 
pose.” 

‘‘ Yes,” she replied. ‘‘1 drove straight from the station here. 
Very undignified haste, was it not?” 

He thought to himself it would be easier to tell her in a cab, 
wheie he could not see the white anguish that would come over her 
face — easier than to tell her as she stood there. 

‘‘ Let me take you home,” he said. ” As you wish 3 mur visit to 
me to remain a secret, 1 will not get out of the cab. I will see .you 
safely in the house, and then drive back home again.” 

”1 will not say no,” she replied. ‘‘Ah, Clinton,” laughing 
softly, and clasping her hands, ‘‘ I shall be much pleased, dear, and 
1 should have been disappointed had you not oltered to go. See 
how frank 1 am growing.” 

So they drove aw'ay in the cab together, and the wind that came 
into the window was sw^eet, dewy, and perfumed. She looked 
more beautiful than ever in the starlight. 

“ Now 1 must tell her,” he said; ‘‘ stab my darling right through 
her tender, loving heart.” 


BETWEEN TWO LOVES. 


103 


He (lid begin, in a grave tone- 

“May,” blit she interrupted him. She held up a little white 
hand before him, on which shone a golden ring. 

“ 1)0 you remember that?” she asked. 

He held tlie sweet white hand in his, while he looked at it. 

“ It is the one 1 gave you,” he said. 

“ Yes; and 1 know you have been true to me, because the stone 
has not changed its color. Miss Lockwood always said there was 
hope ol me, because 1 loved my ring.” 

How was ho to tell her? In what words? 

“ May,” he began again, in a grave, tender voice. 

“Clinton,” she interrupted, “do you know that the sound of 
your voice has altered— changed completely? It has lost all its ring, 
just as your eyes have lost all their happy laughter; but it will soon 
come back.” 

“ 1 must tell her,” he thought. “ Heaven help me, I must tell 
her! Oh, fool and madman that 1 was!” 

She M-as sitting beside him now; her warm, sweet breath reached 
his cheek. By the light of the stars he saw that her eyes were wet 
with happy tears. 

“ What are those lines, Clinton?” she asked. “I like-them so 
much. Listen, do 1 say them correctly: 

“ ‘ After long years of sorrow and pain, 

The arms of my true love are round me again.’ ” 

“Yes,” he said, “ that is right.” 

“ One never feels the truth and beauty of poetry until one has 
loved and suffered,” said Lady May; “ but the suffering is all over 
tor us, Clinton— only the love remains.” 

“ May,” he began a third time, and the cab stopped. 

“ We are at Cliffe House,” she said; “ 1 am disposed to think we 
have come by steam.” 

“ 1 must tell her to-morrow,” he thought to himself. “ My 
darling, she will have one night of happiness. 1 could not have 
borne lo have killed all her innocent joy so soon. To-morrow— 1 
will tell her to-morrow. Oh, dreary day!” 

She was holding out her hand to him with a sweet smile on her 
lovely face. 

“ Good-night, my love, good-night,” she said. 

And he never knew what he answered. Then he was alone in the 
starlight— alone with his sorrow and despair. 


CHAPTER XXVIll. 

HOW HE LOVED HER. 

When the door of Cliffe House closed behind him, and he was 
alone. Sir Clinton Adair dismissed the cab. He was suffocated; he 
could’ not breathe; the small vehicle seemed to him like a furnace; 
he longed to be where the free, fresh air could circle round him and 
cool the fever of his heart and brain. 

“ 1 ought to have told her the first moment,” he said to himself; 


BETWEEN TWO LOVES. 


104 

“ the instant she entered the room 1 ouglit to have told her 1 was 
married. It will be a thousand times more difficult now.” 

lie walked quickly through the deserted squares, where the sum- 
mer wind gently stirred the sleepy trees, lie could not collect his 
thoughts; he could not realize what had passed. 

Lady May, his proud, fair young love, had been with him — Lady 
May, whom he had worshiped as men of old worshiped the sun and 
the stars — Lady May, who would never relax her dignity, wlio 
W'ould never lay aside her pride, who had been so coy, so shy, so 
reserved, that he feared often she did not love him. She had been 
with him, her fair arms clasped round his neck; she had knelt at 
his feet; she had lifted up her pure, fair face to kiss him— his hands 
burned where those sweet lips had touched them; and she had talked 
to him so frankly of her love— how she loved him, how she had 
waited for him, how she had kept her heart and her love untouched 
for him; how, it he had died, she w'ould never have married, but 
would have lived all alone for his sake. 

Could it be possible that she loved him so w’eil? 

The lovely, half-drowned eyes raised to his, the sweet lips, half 
trembling, half smiling; he could think of nothing else — the touch 
of these little white hands was with him still, flow fair, how 
pure, and how tender was this sweet young love of his; she had never 
been more bewitching than in her pretty penitence and pretty tears. 
He had thought it most probable that she had married ; instead of 
that, she had been waiting for him— keeping her love and her lieart 
for him. He had thought that he might not see her again. She 
had been living only to see him. He had thought that if he met her 
lie could pass her by with a cold, careless elancc, or gay, careless 
wmrds; instead of that, his darling had been kneeling at his feet, 
speaking tender words to him, caressing him alter her own i:)ure, 
sweet fashion. 

How lie had misjudged her! Why, all her pride and her coldness 
had given way before her love. If she were proud, then he knew 
not what pride meant. Who so sweet, so gracious, so loving, so 
kind? How wrongly he had judged her! 

Was it a dream, or a reality? How many long months had he 
spent in dreary despair, never caring tor the sun to rise or set, weary 
of his life, caring for nothing, because he had lost liady May; and 
all this time she was longing ior him with a loveasgreafas his own. 
Was it a dream? Should he wake up presently and find himself 
among the vines at Leville? Was it possible that all his anguish 
and misery had been tor nothing? Heaven bless her! how beautiful 
she was; there was no other woman like her in the wide w^orld — 
none! Heaven bless her! she had grown fairer and sweeter. 

What a madman he had been! If only on the evening of that 
fatal play he had been more patient. She was so young, so beauti- 
ful, so admired, no w^onder she was impatient of control. Every 
one flattered her, indulged her, spoiled her; no wonder that she dis- 
liked his scolding and imperative manner. If he had been less jeal- 
ous, less angry- it he had only gone on the morning atterward and 
asked lier to forget his jealousy. After all, he had so little cause 
for it; she had cared nothing tor the Duke ol Kosecarn; why could 
not he. Sir Clinton, have been more indulgent? What real harm 


BETWEEN TWO LOVES. 


105 

was Ihcrc, after all, iu the private theatricals? Not one quarter so 
much as there was in his own jealousy, with its terrible conse- 
quences. How worse than foolish he had been to let such trillcs 
finger him sojleeply. He hated himself with a fierce hatred when 
he thought of whiit he had done. The climax to his folly had been 
his marriage with Daisy— the marriage contracted without love, 
simply from pity, because a pretty girl said she was dying over him. 
How foolish it had all been, to marry her, when he cared nothing 
for her, when his whole heart, mind, and soul were given toanolhei\ 
“ 1 have put the climax to my folly,” he thought, ” in comina back 
again: yet my return has disclosed the truth about her— I know that 
she really loved me. ” 

All would be well with him, would be right, but for this most 
foolish marriage of his. Poor, pretty Daisy! at the best he had only 
felt a kindly affection for her, a toleration born of her kindness and 
love for him. Now that she was the obstacle, the barrier between 
himself anil his love, he felt something more akin to dislike to her. 
Poor, pretty, simple Daisy! Alas! why had she chosen to fall in 
love with him, and why had he been so mad as to marry her. 

He looked at the sleepy trees, they gave him no counsel; he 
looKcd at the pale, pure stars, they said much to him— they said he 
must do his duty, come what might, and, without loss of time, he 
must tell Lady May that Ire was married. What would she think 
of ‘it? He shuddered with terrible pain, his heart grew sick and 
faint within him;- yet he knew that, above all, she would resent the 
fact that he had not told her at once— that he had allowed her to 
open her heart to him, knowing all the time that he was a married 
man; she would resent that fact more bitterly than the fact of his 
marriage. 

How could he tell her? Fie pictured her as he should see her, 
with all her love shining in her face, sweetest welcome shining in 
her eyes, her white hands outstretched in kindliest greeting — tall, 
fair, slender, like a white lily-bud. She would use kind words to 
him, and there, he standing before her, must tell her that he was 
married, must dash the sunlight and happiness from her, must see 
the love and the joy frozen in her sweet eyes, the smile die on her 
lifis; he must sla}’’ her more cruelly than Jephtha slew his daughter; 
he must plunge the sharpest sword in her pure, loving heart. 

As he stood there, looking up at the quiet stars, he could have 
cursed his fate; still, he never dreamed of hiding the fact from her. 
He called himself a coward, a traitor, that he had not told her at 
once. The first moment she came near him he ought to have said 
to her, ” I am married.” Better to have told all at first. 

It was of no use staying out there watching the stars; they had 
given their counsel, they had told him what to do. He re-entered 
the house; he went straight to the drawing-room, where their inter- 
view had taken place, just to convince himself that it had been real, 
and not a dream. There was the lamp, with its pearly light, tire 
chair whereon he had sat, the flowers, everything just as he left it. 
He kissed the chair where her white hand had rested. How he 
loved her— great Heaven, how he loved her! 

A sudden idea occurred to him— he would write to her; that 
would be by far the easiest way of telling her. lie went back to his 


BETWEEN TWO LOVES. 


106 

study. There on the desk lay the letter beginning, My dear Daisy.” 
Was he ever to finish that? He felt unequal just at that moment to 
ever writing to Daisy again. Then he took himself to task Daisy 
was his wife, the woman who had loved him when all other love 
seemed to fail him. 

He forced himself to write; he added only a few linos, telling her 
he had arrived in England safe and well, hoping she w’as well, and 
not lonely. !She must be sure to let him know it she were dull, and 
he signed the letter ” from your affectionate husband.” He folded, 
sealed, and directed it. That duly done, it would be so much easier 
to write to Lady May. He tried it— how cold the words looked on 
paper. What was he to say? 

” My darling May— 1 did not tell you that 1 was married.” No, 
that was too abrupt. 

“ Dear Lady May— 1 have to announce to you the news of my 
marriage.” No, that was too cold, too sudden; he must prepare 
her just a little — his golden-haired love. 

‘‘ Dearest Lady May— When 1 left you on that fatal evening.” 
No, that did not please him. After all, should he write? Slie 
would be so grieved, so unhappy; she might cry out suddenly; she 
might even faint — no one could tell what would happen. Then she 
would blame him for his abruptness. Better, perhaps, not to write 
it, but gradually to break the news to her. 

Gradually — not startle her with an abrupt declaration, but tell her 
what had happened, all about his illness, and his accident. She had 
plenty of sense, this lovely Lady May; she would understand. 

So he put away paper and pen, giving up all idea of writing. As 
soon as it w^as possible to call, he would go to CMiffe House, and, 
wandering through the pretty, perfumed conservatories, as he had 
often done before, hb would gradually break it to her. 

Having resolved upon a certain plan of action, he felt more re- 
lieved; but it would be a terrible task. She was so proud, so sensi- 
tive; there could not possibly be a greater humiliation for her than 
to know that she had given her love, her sweet, shy words, her 
sweet, shy caresses, to a married man. Even as he said the words 
to himself, his face flushed with keen, sharp indignation. If he felt 
it, what would she do — she, who had been so sure of his faith, so 
secure in his truth, his fidelity, his love? Of what avail to tell her 
that his love had never wandered from her? !So much the w'orse 
— so much the more perjured he! 

He tried to sleep, but all night he was haunted by the memory of 
her beautiful face, and he awoke thinking to himself how different 
all would have been had he never married Daisy; that was the one 
fatal blot on his life, the one misfortune for which there was no 
remedy. 

He rose with the daw'n — sleep was impossible; he went out again 
through the leafy shade of the park; he listened to the singing 
birds, he looked at the dew-laden fiowers; he raised his eyes to the 
kindly summer heavens. Alas! there was no help for him, look 
where and how he would — no help! 

He was restless and miserable. 

” 1 think,” he said to himself, *‘ that no man ever had so ungra- 
cious a task before; 1 would rather kill myself than have to meet the 


BETWEEN TWO LOVES. 10? 

sorrowful eyes ol Lady May —than see her face flush with wounded 
love and wounded pride. 1 can not bear it.” 

It was some little reliel to him when the dreary breakfast-hour 
had ended, and he could start for Clide House. 

“It will be my last visit there,’” he thought. “ 1 shall never 
again dare to see Lady May.” 

His last visit! Even if she did not send him from her with cold, 
proud words, he could never go again. The shadow of his unloved 
wife lay between him and his true love. 

He was impatient, irritable, hard to please. Adolphe secretly 
W’ondered what ailed his master. 

“ Going abroad has not improved his temper,” thought that val- 
uable man; “ he never used to find fault in this way — nevei.” 

At last he started for Cliffe House. It mfght have been better 
tor him that morning had he prayed the grand old prayer, “ Lead 
us not into temptation” — he was going into the very midst of it. 
There was a smile on the face of the old servitor who opened the 
door to him. Sir Clinton stopped to say a few kindly words to him, 
and, as he passed on through the entrance hall, the old man said to 
nimself: 

“ 1 hoi:e it wdll be all right at last.” 

For Lady May’s love was pretty well known among the members 
of her household; they judged she liked Sir Clinton best, because 
she had cared for no one after he was gone, and because she had 
evidently waited for his return, so that Sir Clinton Adair say 
nothing but smiling faces on his return to Cliffe House. 


CHAPTEIi XXIX. 

A PLAIN QUESTION. 

There was no one in the drawing room w'heu he entered. Hia 
heart beat fast as he saw once more the familiar, well-loved room, 
flow often he had sat there with her— they_ had laughed, sung, 
quarreled, all in that room; but now, what was to happen in it? 

“ Heaven help me!” he said to himself; “ how will it end?” But 
the keenest fancies of imagination given to him never foreshadowed 
such an ending as that which came. 

The door opened suddenly, and Miss Lockwood came in with out- 
stretched hands that trembled in the very eagerness of their wel- 
come, with eyes filled with glad tears. 

“1 can not find words,” she said, “in which to welcome you. 
'Jhiank Heaven you have come back to us! Vou have been sorely, 
sadly missed.” 

She took both his hands in hers. 

“ Why did you stay away so long?” she asked. 

There was his chance. He should have answered: 

“ 1 have been married. Miss Lockwood;” but a foolish fear re- 
strained him. He ought surely, first of all, to tell Lady May; that 
was surely the least he could do; he had no right to mention it to 
any one until she knew. That was the excuse which he made to 
himself. 


108 


BETWEEN TWO LOVES. 


“ Why have yon stayed away so long?” she said, half sadly. 
” IJow much happiness you have missed!” 

“ 1 had not much when 1 went,” he replied, with a faint smile. 

“No, but then she is altered; you have never seen any one so 
altered, Sir Clinton. 1 shall ahvays think that this sorrow has done 
her good. There is no mistake about one thing— she loved you all 
the time, and she loved you well.” 

”1 have only mj^selt to blame,” he replied. 

] “ It you knew how anxious she has been over you! Wc tried all 

that w^as possible to make out your adtlress, but w^e could not. 
When the announcement of your arrival appeared in the papers 
yesterday, 1 thought my darling would have gone cra/.y with de- 
light. i w’ould not tell you this but that 1 know you love her, and 
1 know that it is all right.” 

lie bit his lips with vexation. Would to Heaven that it w^crc 
indeed all right! He could have given his life for his freedom, 
if only for one hour in which he might have loyed her and called 
her his own. 

” 1 was half startled,” continued Miss Lockwood, ” when she in- 
sisted on coming to London to see you. 1 was half unwilling, just' 
at first; but she said a letter might be lost, besides which, the 
longest letter that she could write would never tell you how sorry 
she was, nor how dearly she loved you. Then 1 thought it could 
not matter, and we came up together. But what a gossip lam! 
Where have you been all this time, Sir Clinton?” 

‘‘lhave been living in France,” he said, briefly; and it struck 
Miss Lockwood, even then, that he did not care to say much of his 
absence. 

‘‘ In France?” she repeated. ” Well, time teaches us many les- 
sons, Sir Clinton; it will teach you never to be jealous again.” 

‘‘ 1 was a madman!” he cried, suddenly. “She has the purest, 
the noblest, the truest heart in all the w^orld. 1 am not worthy to 
breathe the same air.” 

“ That is what all lovers think,” said Miss Lockwood. 

Then, before he had time to say more, the door opened, and Lady 
May entered, bright and fair as the morning itself, a heaven of wel- 
come in her face, her eyes shining with light. 

” Good- morning, Sir Clinton,” she said, gayly; “you arc an 
early visitor.” 

“ 1 have much to say,” he replied, bowing over the white, warm 
hands. 

She looked up into his face. 

“ Vou must grant us a favor,” she said. “ We are going to kill 
the fatted calf for you to-day; will you spend the whole day with 
us?” 

“ Tes,” he replied. 

He thought to himself that every condemned criminal had a last 
request granted to him; surely there could be no harm in his snatch- 
ing this one gleam of happiness before he died. 

“ 1 will stay gladly,” he replied. 

Then he saw that Miss Lockwood had quitted the room. A sud- 
den, almost terrible nervousness came o^er him— he, who loved her 
so, felt almost afraid of Lady May. After her great kindness to 


BETWEEN TWO LOVES. lOO 

him, she would expect, at least, some kind words from him. What 
could he — what dare lie say? 

Slie did not give him much lime for reflection; she looked at him 
with laughing eyes. 

“ Clinton, have you seen the Duchess of riosecarn yet?” she 
asked. “ See, 1 have cards for her ball next week. 1 shall go, it 
you will go; and 1 promise not to waltz once.” 

He looked up in surprise. 

‘‘Hut they ’’—then he hesitated— “ are they friends of yours, 
May?” he asked. 

“ Yes,” she replied. “ 1 have achieved the wonder some people 
think impossible— 1 have dismissed a man as a lover, yet retained 
him as a friend. The duke ami myself are on friendly terms, and 
his pretty wife does me the favor to call me one of her best friends. 
They were very anxious that 1 should come up to town three w’eeks 
ago, but 1 did not.” 

“ Why?” he asked, yielding himself to the luxury of listening to 
the sweet tones of her voice — all the music would be taken from it 
soon, when she should hear what he had to say. 

‘‘Why?” she repeated, laughingly; “1 will tell you, if you 
promise not to be vain.” 

” 1 promise,” he said. 

“ 1 did not care to come because you were not here; and it has 
been my dream that 1 should be able to tell you, when you came 
back, that 1 had given up every attraction Loudon held for your 
sake.” 

“ And you have done so?” he asked, dreamily. 

“Yes,” she replied; “and 1 w’ould do it again and again. 1 
wonder at myself ; but when you had gone, it was just as though 
the very light had gone out of my life— 1 never enjoyed one minute 
afterward. Now it is all over, thank Heaven, and light has come 
in the place of darkness.” 

“ 1 will tell her all in a few minutes,” he thought— “ not just 
now, while she looks so radiantly happy.” 

“ Clinton,” she said, with a low, happy laugh, “ you would have 
been touched had you seen Miss Lockw’ood last evening. She was 
waiting for me; she stood by the table there, trembling so that she 
could iiardly talk to me. 

“ ‘ Oh, my dear, my dear!’ she cried, as soon as 1 entered; ‘ now, 
is it all right— has he made friends with you? Do tell me, I am so 
anxious to know.’ 

“ 1 laughed at her. 

“ ‘ Friends? Certainly, we are the greatest of friends,’ 1 replied; 
and she thanked Heaven with tears in her eyes. She loves you, 
Clinton. You are very fortunate; Miss Lockwood does not love 
many people in this weary world,” 

“ 1 am fortunate, but Ido not deserve my good fortune,” he said, 
gravely. 

“ 1 think you do; a man’s estimate of himself is never to be taken 
for truth. 1 can judge of you better than you can judge of your- 
self.” 

. “ Ah, if she knew!” he said to himself — “ if she only knew !” 

He knew that he was cowardly in deferring his task; it had to be 


BETWEEN TWO LOVES. 


110 

(lone -it must be done. Up to tliis time he lincl no thought of con- 
cealing the truth, never even the faintest idea of such a thing; but 
now — well, it was only for a few minutes; a reprieve such as a con- 
demned man has in his cell. 

He was sick with a dull sense of misery and pain; yet, with that 
lovely, laughing face before him, it seemed impossible to be ungra- 
cious; he must smile, he must talk. By and by he would tell her, 
and there would be sunshine in her face never more. 

She was looking up at him in some wonder; she had been too 
deeply absorbed in her own happiness to notice him. Kow it slowly 
dawned acioss her that he seemed rather to receive her love than to 
return it. She could remember nothing that he had said; voluntar- 
ily, he had not addressed her; true, his' eyes seemed to devour her— - 
no one single glance or word of hers escaped him; but, now that 
she came to think of it, what had he said? Last night, in the 
tumult of her joy— her joy at finding him, at making friends with 
him, her pain at his changed appearance— she had not remarked 
upon his manner to herself; she had taken it for granted that it 
w'ould be the same with him as with herself. Kow, looking at him, 
she was struck with the depth of pain in his eyes, the sad, wearied, 
expression, the drooping, dejected attitude. 'W hat could it mean, 
when he had found her? She went up to him. 

“ Clinton,” she said, very gently, ” will you answ^er me one 
cpiestion?’ 

” 1 will answer as many, my darling, as you like to ask,” he re- 
plied, 

‘‘ There is only one,” she said — “one plain, simple question. Tell 
me, do you love me quite as much as you used to do? Ifem ember, 
1 shall be neither hurt nor angry if you say no— it will be all my 
own fault; but there is somethiue: so strange about jmu; you are 
not what j^u were. How, tell me truly, do you love me less?” 

Love her less! He groaned involuntarily. Love her less! Would 
to Heaven that he did; the task before him would not be so terrible. 

“ Love you less. May?” he replied. “ No, in all truth. If it be 
possible to love you even more than 1 did when the fancied loss of 
you drove me mad, 1 love you more now.” 

“ Do you?” she asked, a little sadly. 

He smiled— a smile ten times more pitiful than tears would have 
been. 

“Do you know,” he said, ” an old song, that never left me, sleep- 
ing or waking, while 1 w^asaway from you — a quaint, sweet song?” 

She shook her beautiful head in grave, sweet silence. 

” A song, the retrain of which filled every moment of my life— 

“ I am wea^" waiting — 

Waiting for the May.” 

“ Is it really so?” she asked, a sudden light flashing in her face. 
” And you love me better than ever?” 

” Better than ever,” he replied, sadly. 

Then again she looked at him wouderingly. 

“ But, Clinton, yon are so changed. In' the time gone past, if I 
had asked you such a question, how you would have— well, you 
would have answered it very differently.” 


BETWEEN TWO LOVES. Ill 

“ Jrlow should lhave answered it?” he asked, trying to throw off 
the care that overshadowed him. 

‘‘"i:oa would have gone into raptures, and have made ever so 
many pretty speeches,” she replied; ” now you take it coolly, as a 
matter-of-fact; and 1,” she added, with a charming smile—” lhave 
not reached the matter-of-fact age yet.” 

” 1 should hope not,” he said. ” Ah, yes. May, I love you, not 
as well, but a thousand times better than 1 did.” 

It a man wants to know what real love is, and how to increase it, 
let him believe that the woman he loves is lost to him; that will 
teach him more than years of happiness spent in her presence. 

” 1 have been weary, my darling,” he added, passionately— 
” weary, waiting for my May.” 

She was more contented then; she looked at the handsome, hag- 
gard face, and smiled. 

” After all,” she thought, ” the change in him is all my fault. It 
is because tie loved me so much, and sorrowed for me so greatly, 
that he is altered. 1 must try to win him round to something like 
his own old happy self; no matter how hard the task, 1 will be 
patient with it. ” 

” May,” he said, gravely, sadly, ” 1 have something 1 want to say 
to you.” 

He had screwed his courage up to the right point then. She turned 
a laughing face to him: 

” 1 have something also that 1 want to say to you, Clinton. 
Listen to me first. Look outside, love. See how the sun is shining; 
see how the flowers bloom; see how the trees are dressed in green; 
listen how the birds sing and the bees hum; see how fair and lovely 
everything is, just as though Nature herself were glad because we 
had found eacli other. My love, we will not utter serious words or 
talk of serious things, but we will spend the 'day in the sunshine, 
and it shall be the happiest day of our lives.” 


CHAPTER XXX. 

A DISArPPOINTED LADY. 

“The happiest day of our lives,” repeated Lady May. “Oh, 
Clinton, how long is it since I had a really happy day!-- never since 
you went away. There is a rhyme. Remerrber now^ wdiat you have 
promised— not one anxious look, not one anxious wmrd. We will 
spend the day among the flowers, and be carelessly happy as two 
butterflies in the sun.” 

He could not resist her. 

” 1 will have one happy day,” he said to himself; ” one day to 
which we can both look back as to a last day in Paradise. 1 will 
tell her to-night before we part. One happy day out of a life-time 
—surely Heaven will not grudge me that.” 

” We will take these books with us; they will look like an apology 
for wasting time, and we will go into the conservatories, and there 
you must tell me, Clinton, all that you have done since we parted.” 

Would to Heaven he could— he asked no better place, the difliculty 


in 


BETWEEN TWO LOVES. 


lay in the telling. He called himself a coward and a traitor as he 
followed her; he loathed himself, he loathed the light of day; the 
sunshine and the flowers were hateful to him; it seemed to hiui tliat 
a brand was on his brow— the weight of his untold secret crushed 
him. 

Ijady May led the way to the cool, fragrant conservatory, where 
two chairs were placed near the flowers. 

“ Let us sit here,” she said. ‘‘ Do you remember, Clinton, how 
often we have sat here before you went away? This is one of the 
haunts 1 liked best to visit— it brought you so forcibly lo my mind 
always. 1 hardly thought that we should sit here side b}'" side 
again."” 

” Life is all a mystery,” he said. ‘‘ Why we do things, wdiy we 
say them, wiiy we perform certain actions and leave others undone, 
is all a mystery.” 

That was not quite the reply she expected, and it struck her as 
being strange that he made no response to her kindly words. 

*' i think,” she replied, “ that we make many of the mysteries, as 
w’c make many of the troubles. But, Clinton, we will not discuss 
either mysteries or troubles.” 

” What shall we discuss?” he asked, trying to affect an easy care- 
lessness, which, however, sat badly on him. 

” There are two subjects fitted for this lovely morning,” she said 
— “ love and flowers.” 

” Both ought to be ensily discussed with you,” he said; ami again 
Lady May raised her innocent, wondering eyes to his face. There 
was something forced and unnatural in his conduct; his voice had 
not the true ring, his smile had not the sunshine, his compliments 
even had something unnainral and stiff about them. 

” Clinton,” she said, “ I never saw any one so changed as you 
are: time has been cruel to you.” 

” It was not time,” he said, dreamily; “ it was you. May.” 

Her quick, crimson blush seemed to bring him back to himself. 

“What an ungenerous speech!” he cried, “lam ashamed of 
myself. 1 was thinking aloud. May, you must forgive me.” 

“ The thought is just as diflicult to pardon as the words,” she re- 
plied. “ Oh, Clinton, shall you never cease to think of my faults?” 

“ 1 did not mean to mention it,” he said. 

She interrupted him: 

“ You are right, after all, Clinton— it is entirely my fault. Y’’ou 
were happy enough, bright enough before you knew me.” 

“ Knowing you has made all the happiness of my life. May,” he 
replied. 

She laid the books down and went over to him. She placed one 
white, jeweled hand upon his brow; she traced the veins with one 
pretty finger. 

“ i)id I do this and this?” she said. “ Is it 1 who have changed 
you— who have taken the light and gladness from the face I Jove so 
well? Is it 1 who have made you care-worn and anxious? Oh, my 
love, forgive me — 1 will give my life lo mafie you happy again. 1 
shall w'ateh these lines one by one disappear; 1 shall watch the light 
come back lo your eyes, the smile to your lips. 1 prophesy that in 
three weeks from now you are your old self again.” 


BETWEEN TWO LOVES. 


113 

But he said to himself, with a groan: “ Never — never more!’’ 

“ 1 shall be quite patient, ” she continued, wilh a charming smile; 
“ so patient that you will say to yourself, ‘ T'liis can not be Lady 
May.’ 1 shall treat you just as 1 should one ot those favorite flowers 
of mine; if 1 saw it drooping, 1 should tend it, cherish it, love it, 
keep all hurtful influence away from it. 1 shall do just .the same 
with you.” 

His face flushed with delight, 3 ^et he would have given the world 
to escape. On the previous evening he had been so completely taken 
by surprise, that he had not attempted even to evade her caresses; 
now she was bending over him, her flower-like face near his, her. 
perfumed hair touching his cheek, her white, warm hands near to 
his clasp; yet he did not dare to touch her. He said to himself that 
he was a coward and traitor, but not traitor base enough for that. 
He did not dare to touch with his lips the face so near his own. 

The girl felt surprised, then wounded, at his coldness. She little 
knew the torture he was suffering. 

” You are not so pleased to see me this morning, Clinton, as you 
were last night,” she said, at length. 

”1 am more pleased, if possible,” he said. “ Every time 1 see 
you, "May, the pleasure of seeing you grows greater — the pain of 
parting from you more bitter.” 

“Ah! that is more b’ke yourself,” she said — “more like the 
Clinton who used to go into rages of jealousy and raptures of love. 
1 hardly know this calm, cool, collected gentleman who sits here.” 

“ 1 hardly know myself,” he replied. 

She laid her fair, soft cheek on his hand. 

“ Because you are so pleased,” she said; “ you hardly know your- 
self because you are delighted to be with me again. Oh, my love, 
my love, 1 am sorry that you ever went away!’' 

“ So am I,” he repeated, in a voice so fervent and earnest that she 
said to herself that she must have been mistaken in thinking him 
cold or changed. 

Still he never touched her, never clasped her hand in his own, 
never laid his hand on her golden hair. 

“ He has grown shy,” she said; “ he is afraid of me; he only re- 
members my whims and caprices; he does not think ot my love,” 

She drew her chair nearer to his, thinking to herself, with a smile, 
that it was her turn to be the wooer now. and she began to talk to 
him, as she had been accustomed to talk, tlie light, loving, sparkling 
nothings men like to hear from the women they love best. She 
amused him in spite ot himself; he torgot his troubles and Ijis cares 
in listening to her. She had a keen sense ot humor, and some of 
her stories were so droll it was impossible to retrain from laughing. 
She had no mean power of mimicry, and some of her imitations sent 
Sir Clinton into hearty fits of laimhter. 

“ That is belter.” thought Lady May to herself, as she listened. 

Gradually she charmed him out ot his coldness, out ot his reserve; 
his spirits seemed to rise with hers. He laughed, talked, jested in 
his old style; unly ever and anon she, who watched him so closely, 
saw a dark shadow steal over him, an expression of care and pain- 
ful thought. What could be the reason? Yet, so far, she was well 
pleased with the progress she had made. 


114 


BETWEEN TWO LOVES. 


“ It is as though our positions were reversed,” she said, “ and 1 
had to woo and win instead of him.” 

After a little the charm of her manner, her exquisite beauty, her 
exquisite grace, regained their mastery over him, and he was talking 
to her as if time had not parted them. The only difference she 
noticed was that he never attempted to caress her; no matter how 
close the sweet, white hand lay near him, his own never closed over 
it. She remembered when hie used to plead for one clasp of her 
white fingers. What had changed hini so? 

The idea suddenly occurred to her that he adopted this line of con- 
duct from a wish to please her; that she had always been so coy and 
reserved with him, he had adopted the same line of behavior, think- 
ing to please her. 

“lam changed, too,” she thought. ‘‘ 1 used to be so proud, so 
haughty; he thinks 1 am a goddess to be worshiped, not a woman 
to be loved.” 

So, although she had won him back to something like their old 
standing-point. Lady May was somewhat disappointed. She would 
have been happier had he taken her once in his arms and kissed her, 
saying: 

‘‘We will be friends, and bury the past, dear.” 

Bat he did nothing of the kind. lie talked gayly enough while 
the conversation was only of general matters; but the moment that 
it became personal, he was mute. He discussed politics, literature, 
art, the news of the day, their different fiiends, but neither himself 
nor her. She was roused by hearing the bell for lunch; she looked 
up at bini playfully. 

‘‘ Clinton, our happy wooing is all over; there is the bell tor 
lunch. This morning has gone, never to return.” 

“ Never to return,” he repeated to himself ; ” with all its pains and 
its pleasures, never to return!” 

They went into the dining-room for lunch, and Miss Lockwood 
met them with a smiling face. In her own mind she thought that, 
by this lime, they would have settled the wedding-day. Lady May 
went to her room to make some pretty addition to her toilet, and 
Miss Lockwood followed her. 

‘‘ Is it all right, my dear?” she asked, anxiously. 

Lady May could not explain why she sighed, as she replied: 

‘‘ Yes, certainly — quite right.” 

” And have you nothing to tell me?” continued the elder lady — 

‘‘ nothing of any kind?” 

Again the vague sense of disappointment came over Lady May. 

‘‘ What news should 1 have?” she asked, with some slight an- 
noyance. 

‘‘I thought, perhaps,” said Miss Lockwood, “that you had 
arranged your wedding-day.” 

“ There is plenty of time for that,” said Lady May, with a care- 
less laugh; yet the laugh had something of pain in it. 
tv/ 1 3mu will not think any questions of mine impertinent. 
May,” said Miss Lockwood, “ because your interest is mine, and 
your joys and sorrows are mine. Has Sir Clinton said nothing of 
the wedding-day?” 


BETWEEIT TWO LOVES. 115 

■‘Not yet,” laughed Lady May. ” 1 do not think he has quite 
recovered from the surprise ot seeing me.” 

She had laughed as she spoke, but even she owned to herself that 
it was passing strange. She had been a whole morning with her 
lover, and he had not said one word to her of love— he had not even 
mentioned mairiage, he who liad once never wearied ot praying her 
to name the day. 

It -was more than strange. She tried to have recourse to Ler old 
formula of belief — that it was her own fault, that she herself had 
brought about the change within him; but it was in vain— that 
reflection had not half so much comfort in it as it had once. 

They went down to lunch, and then she thought that surely she 
had been mistaken. He was all kindness, all devotion; he amused 
Miss Lockwood and herself Dy a hundred anecdotes, by his descrip- 
tions of people whom he had met. They lingered long, until Lady 
IMay turned to her companion, with a bright face. 

” Shall we ride this afternoon?” she asked. 

For a moment it flashed across him that, if the announcement of 
his marriage had to be made, it would hardly do for him to he seen 
riding with her. It would be sure to excite comment and remark, 
therefore it would be better left alone. 

” 1 think not,” he replied; “it is very warm. 1 will read to 
you if you like.” 

But the answer was' given with such hesitation that Lady May 
could not help remarking i^. 

“My dear,” whispered Miss Lockwood, as they left the draw- 
ing-room—” my dear May, he is really more delightful than ever; 
but, do you know, 1 have a strange fancy.” 

” What is it?” asked Lady May. 

” 1 thought he did not seem to care about riding out with you; 
is it so, do you think?” 

” He seemed to hesitate, but it is really very warm, and he does 
not seem over-strong. There could be no other possible reason for 
his declining.” 

‘‘ 1 suppose not,” said Miss Lockwood; 5^et she did not. seem 
quite satisfied. More than once she said to herself, during that day, 
that Sir Clinton Adair was quite unlike himself. 


CHAPTER XXXI 

A CHANGED MAN. 

When Sir Clinton entered Clifie House on that morning, he had 
fully intended that his secret should be told before night— he had 
not dreamed of keeping it after the day was over. It was one 
happy day snatched from life-long pain, yet it was not all happi- 
ness; every moment he passed with her added to his pain; every 
charm of hers— her fair face, her grace of movement, her grace ot 
words, actions and thoughts— all increased his love for her. He 
thought to himself every moment what might have been, what a 
cruel dillerence between wliat Was and what might have been. But 
for that mad marriage — that foolish, mad marriage of his — he 


116 


BETWEEN TW^O LOVES. 


could now 1)0 asking L.ady May lo hasten her wedding-day. lie 
pictured to himself the radiant happiness that would have been his, 
the life they would liave led together, now that Lady May had 
learned to love him so well at last. Now it was all over— this un- 
loved wife of his stood between him and his lair 5 ’oung love; she 
could never now be his, and he should have to tell her so when the 
day was ended. 

They spent a long, happy, sunny afternoon together in the draw- 
ing-room. Lady May had said to him : 

“ Why, Clinton, we have spent a whoU) day together, and yet 
you have not told me one single thing that you did while you were 
away. All those mouths are gone out of your life, and I know 
nothing of them.” 

“ 1 will tell you all about them to-night,” he had replied, but 
his manner was strange and confused. 

Suddenly it seemed to her that he had no great wish lo speak of 
this part of his life. Perhaps he had passed ,it in listless, idle 
dreaming of her, and was ashamed to tell her so; perhaps he had 
spent it in going aimlessly from one place to another, and did not 
care to tell her how completely the time had been wasted. She re- 
solved that it should not happen again— that she would speak to 
him more of the future, never more of the past — it should be a 
sealed book between them. She could trust him; in all those 
months she felt quite certain that he had never once been untrue lo 
her. 

So, when dinner was over, and the fair, dewy, fragrant evening 
drawing to a close, he knew the time had come when he must break 
her heart. It must be done. People would soon begin to talk 
about them — to associate them together. It would not be fair to 
her to keep that marriage quiet even for another day. 

They had gone into one of the pretty little balconies that led 
from the drawing-room windows, and then he said to himself that 
he must tell her the plain, unvarnished truth; he would make no 
excuses for himself— indeed, he had none to offer. The plain 
fact was he believed Lady May to be married, and lost to him for- 
ever, and he had married pretty, simple Daisy, because she had 
declared herself that she should die when he went aw^ay. No tale 
could be more simple or more concise. Why should it be so diffi- 
cult to tell? He looked at the face, doubly fair in the moonlight. 
He saw before him a vision of shining silk and soft white lace, of a 
lovely face, and the sheen of golden liair; he saw the light of her 
jeweis, and the light in her eyes; he saw deep, pure, true love tor 
himself in every feature of her face, and he turned aw^ay with de- 
spair more bitter than death in his heart. Oh, pale, pitiless moon- 
light, that had no compassion for him; pale, pitiless stars, that had 
in them no gleam of mercy! He must tell her— tell her that he was 
married, and could never be more to her while the world stood. 

“May,” he began in alow, unsteady voice— ” May, you asked 
me this morning to tell you all that 1 had done and had seen— all 
that 1 had lived through since 1 went away. 1 am ready to tell 
you now, if you are ready to listen.” 

She was quite silent tor half a minute, then she said: 

” My dearest Clinton, 1 will not listen to one word; 1 refuse abso- 


BETWEEK TWO LOVES. 


117 

hilely to listen. I am qnito sure of one thing — you may have 
■wasted, idled, or even ill-spent the time during which you have 
been away, but you have been quite true to me; nothing in the 
whole wide world can shake my faith in that. You have kept your 
love for me free, and pure, and true; the rest does not concern me, 
and 1 refuse to listen to it.” 

lie made some faint protest; he began again, but she placed her 
white hand on his lips. 

“ There,” she said, triumphantly, ” you can not be so rude as to 
talk now. 1 will not listen. You can not receive a greater compli- 
ment than for the woman you love to trust you. Instead of talking 
fbout this past, which 1 pronounce to be dead and buried for both 
of us, we will talk of the future— the future that shines before us, 
bright and clear as the summer heavens — that will have a thousand 
times more interest for us.” 

But, to her surprise, he remained mute and dumb. 

” It has a charm for you, although at this moment you are too 
proud to say so. 1 live in it; there is no hour of my life in which 1 
do not thank Heaven for it,” she added, quickly. ” Oh, love! my 
love! what would that future have been without you?” 

Then she had not time to say more. Miss Lockwood came out to 
them, and all chance of conversation was over for the evening, 
and he had not told her. He said ” good- night ” to her, holding 
her hands in his, looking with wistful, haggard eyes into her face, 
his lips trembling. He looked at the sweet white hands, but dare 
not kiss them; he looked at tlie lovely, flowcT-like face, but dare 
not touch it; his hand clasped hers, but no warm pressure told her 
how dearly he loved her. 

” Good-night,” she repeated, glancing with wonder into his face. 
Would he always be so cold, so reserved with her? Would he 
ever understand that she was changed, and that she would fain win 
him from his reserve? Then, with that same strange, wistful look 
on his face, he went away, leaving her dissatisfied and ill at ease. 

” Not a very lover-like pariing,” said Miss Lockwood, with a 
smile; ‘‘ your lover has peculiar notions. I should imagine that he 
considers a kiss next door to a sin.” 

‘‘There are worse faults than being too reserved,” said Lady 
May; ” it is not the vice of the age. Most of the men 1 know would 
be the better for a little of Sir Clinton’s reserve.” 

But though she defended him, and affected to admire his great 
discretion, in her own heart she was ill at ease. When she stood 
that night in her room, she thought long and deeply. This was the 
man who had been so passionately in love with her, who had gone 
mad, he said, with the love of her: this was the man who had lived 
in the light of her eyes. She had spent a whole day with him, and 
he had never once spoken of love or of marriage to her; he had not 
alluded to the past in which they were lovers, or to the future in 
which they were to be man and wife; he had never clasped her hand 
in his, he had not called her by any one of the loving epithets he 
had been wont to use toward her. What could it mean? Not want 
of love, if his eyes spoke truly; not want of devotion to her; it 
could not mean that there was any barrier between them. What 
could there be? 


118 


BETWEEN TWO LOVES. 


“ 1 woDcler/’ said Lady May to herself, “ if he would have souglit 
me out? 1 wonder if it was tor my sake that he came back to Eng- 
land— if it was to woo me?” 

And then she half repented ot the loving impulse that had led 
her to seek him. 

” 1 did wrong,” she said to herself, a crimson flush mounting to 
her face. ” Perjiaps it I had not sought him he would not have 
souaht me; yet how can 1 think that of him, when he lores me so 
dearly, so well?” 

She repeated those words to herself as she laid her head on the 
pillow, yet her heart was heavy. She had tound him again; but 
this was not the love she had lost — this was not the passionate, 
recRless, jealous, ardent lover who seemed jealous even of the wind 
that touched her face. This was a cool, calm, self-disciplined man. 

” And ah, me!” she sighed to herself— she liked the old lover 
best. ‘‘ Time would set it all right,” yet her he, art was heavy and 
sore within her. 

Nor did Sir Clinton feel much happier; he heaped every con- 
temptuous epithet on himself; he called himself weak, a coward, 
and a traitor. He ought to have told her; but how in Heaven’s 
name was he to do so now? Her reproaches would overwhelm him; 
the sight of her sorrow would overwdiclm him, too. 

” Never was man so wretched as 1,” he said to himself, ” and all 
my own fault.” 

The next day he did not go near her; he was miserable. Having 
been an honorable gentleman all his life, he could not bear this 
sense of concealment; he was not one who could ever be happy in 
evil doing; he was not, as a rule, a moral coward, but his wdiole 
soul shrunk from the task ot telling his fair young love that he was 
married. The morning passed away— slow, long hours that seemed 
endless. Then came a note from Lady May; they thought of 
returning to Trevlyn’s Nest on the morrow. She had only come 
up 10 town just to see him. A small party of friends — Sir John 
and Lady Lewis— w' ere returning with them; would he follow them 
in the course of a day or two? The postscript said: 

” Do not write your answer; bring it.” 

‘‘ Do you think he will come?” Miss Lockwmod asked halt 
(ioubtingly, when Lady May told her what she had done. 

” Come? Of course he will, and be very pleased to do so.” 

Hut Miss Lockwood shook her head gravelv. 

‘‘ 1 do not know, my dear,” she said. ” Sir Clinton Adair is a 
changed man.” 

Yet he took his answer. He found Lady May alone in her draw- 
ing-room, and, to his loving, admiring eyes, she had never seemed 
half so beautiful. She wore a dress of white lace and muslin 
curiously interv/oven, and she had chosen real flowers tor her orna- 
ments— nothing but taint, mystical, dreamy, white lilies, and they 
suited her fair aristocratic loveliness as imlhing else could have 
done. The man who had loved her so well and "who had lost her 
saw that she was more reserved in her greeting. She held out a 
while hand, and her lips w'orea charming smile, but she did not ad- 
vance to meet him. She did not raise her face as though sure of a 
lover’s kiss; she had caught his own spirit of reserve. 


BETWEEN TWO LOVES. 119 

That piquet! him. So slranj^c, So contradicfoiy arc men! lie had 
wished that she would not he so demonstrative of her love for him; 
now' that she showed some si^^n of reserve, hewuisniquedand vexed! 
He saw that she had resolved upon imitating him;* she said no word 
of herself; she told him some amusing anecdotes of Lad}' Lew'is; 
she sketched for his edification the portrait of a visitor they had had 
that morning. She was cold, gay, graceful, amusing— all the deep, 
earnest, tender love, the pure, womanly passion had vanished like 
snow when kissed by the sun. She did not use one endearing w'ord; 
she seemed beni only on amusing him, and he was vexed at it. 

He had come to say that he found it impossible to go to Trevlyn 
Nest, that he had imperative business in London, and this was how 
he fared. TV hen she had exhausted her little sketches, she looked 
up at him as though suddenly remembering something. 

“ 1 had forgotten,” she said, “you W'eie to bring your answer; 
did you not, Clinton?” 

“lam afraid that my answer will hardly please you. May,” he 
replied. 

“ It is a refusal, then,” she said, coldly. “ Well, we each know 
our own affairs best. If jou do not come. I must find some one else 
to make the party complete.” 

But that was not to be borne. His face flushed with annoyance 
that she should take his refusal so calmly, and invite some one else 
in his place — it was not to be dreamed of. 

“ You are hasty at jumping to conclusions,” he said. “ 1 hope 
to go to Trevlyn Nest, if you will permit me.” 

The sudden look of happiness and tenderness that came over her 
face repaid him. 

“ You do love me a little, then,” she said. “ 1 was beginning to 
believe that you did not care for me at all.” 

“ 1 pray Heaven that you may never love any one half so much,” 
he said, sadly, as their interview terminated. 


CHAPTER XXXll. 

LOVE AND FLOWERS. 

A WEEK later found the whole of the little party assembled at 
Trevlyn Nest. Sir Clinton W'as there; he had not intended to go, 
just as he had not intended to conceal the fact of his marriage; 
3 et he had gone, and the fact of his marriage was still unannounced. 

He had said to himself, with a kind of despair’, that he must 
sw’im with the current— it was too late now to retrieve his position; 
that he ought to have told Lady May of it at once — now' it was too 
late. He could not; he must sw’im with the current; he must keep 
Iris secret a little longer. He had some half kind of plan in his 
nririd that he would remain for some time at Trevlyn Nest, then go 
back to Daisy, and, when he had once more fastened the chains of 
his bondage around him, he w ould write lo Lady May, 

In the meantime he w'ould enjoy the pleasure of her society —he 
would drive away dull care- -he w'ould laugh and jest with the best 
of them. Life would be quite long enough for all he had to suffer. 
Then he pitied himself— there never, surely, was a man born to so 


120 


BETWEEN- TWO LOVES. 


wretched a tatc; his life had been a failure all Ihrouji^h this one un- 
fortunate love. He hated himself; for no matter what sophistry ho 
used, no matter how specious his thoughts and words, he knew that 
he had stained his honor— had forfeited the name of gentleman— had 
branded himself as coward and traitor. Even in his guilt lie was to 
be pitied. 

On the third day after their arrival atTrevlyn Nest, the party was 
joined by Colonel Grantley, a frank, handsome soldier, wdio had 
seen some hard service in India, and had, on his return, fallen des- 
perately in love with Lady Ma}’’. He was a cousin of Lady Lewis, 
and had invited himself to Trevlyn under the pretext of seeing her. 
The colonel never attempted the least disguise, and his Jove, his 
homage was most publicly rendered — he seemed to consider Lady 
May the queen of all creation. Sir Clinton’s love for her, in its in- 
nocent and best days, had been a passionate, fierce love; Colonel 
Grantley’s was honest, manly, and kind, without the elements of 
tragedy, but yet a love that might have made any woman proud. 
No one could be in the same room long with Colonel Grantley with- 
out knowing that he loved the beautiful Lady May, after a soldier’s 
fashion, with all his heart. 

Needless to say how heartily Sir Clinton Adair detested him. But 
for the colonel and his genial devotion Sir Clinton would not proba- 
bly have remained so long at Trevlyn Nest; as it was, he could not 
go away and leave the field open to his rival. 

“ Yet,” he said, ” how contemptible 1 am; 1 can never win her 
for myself, and 1 will let no one else have a chance.” 

His jealousy rather flattered Lady May. Always puzzling over the 
great change in him, she eagerly welcomed every trifling show of 
preference as a proof that, although his manner uiight be changed, 
his love remained unaltered. She found it rather puzzling to have 
two such devoted lovers. Colonel Grantle>’s admiration was a 
source of amusement to her-— there w’^as something so irresistibly en- 
tertaining about it. 

” 1 ought to go back to London,” said Sir Clinton to her one 
morning; ” but 1 can not.” 

‘‘You can not! Why?” she asked. 

“Because 1 can not endure the thought of leaving you with 
Colonel Grantley,” he replied. 

“ Colonel Grantley is nothing to me,” she said, gently, “ and you 
are everything.” 

Then she thought to herself: 

“ If he is so very anxious to secure me, why does he not ask me 
to marry him?” and her eyes spoke her thoughts so plainly that he 
turned away in utter contusion. 

Lady May had arrived at a certain conclusion by this lime, and 
it was that Sir Clinton loved her just as well as ever, yet he had 
made up his mind to test her— to try her before he married her — she 
could find no other solution to his conduct. 

“ It serves me quite right,” she said to herself, frankly, “ and 1 
will be quite patient over it. He tried me before, and 1 was found 
terribly wanting; he shall be satisfied with the test now.” 

She had told Miss Lockwood of her belief, wdio most cordially 
joined in it, having been much puzzled to discover the motive of 


BETWEEN TWO LOVES. 121 

Sir Clinton’s conduct. That seemed satisfactory. She laughed 
good-temperedly over it. 

“You dia behave heartlessly to him, May; no wonder that lie 
wants to tiy 3 ^ 11 . lie linus it ditlicult to believe in your reforma- 
tion, perhaps.” 

So that Jjudv’^ May had recovered her how of charming spirits, it 
was all right; her lover was only testing her good faith— he should 
see that she was sincere. 

One little incident was vividly impressed on Sir Clinion’s mind — 
Colonel Grantley had seen the flutter of Lady May’s dress among 
the trees, and, as usual, hastened out on the lawn. Lady Lewis 
joined them, and they walked until they reached the wood-clustered 
glade that Jed to the wood. Then Sir Clinton could bear it no 
longer; that frank, handsome soldier was talking gayly — looking, 
with all his heart in his handsome eyes, into Lady JNIay’s face, lie 
went after them. 

‘‘It is only a few steps now to the wood,” said Lady Lewis, 
‘‘ .and, above all things. I love the shade of a wood on a summer 
d.ay. Do let us go ihcie. Lady May.” 

‘‘ If some one will open the gate for us,” she replied. ” When 1 
M^as here last year alone, 1 used to spend every morning in that 
wood.” 

'* 1 will open the gale,” said the colonel. ” 1 should open the 
gate were it twice as big, and twice as high, if you required it. Lady 
May.” 

‘‘ Y"ou are ceitainl 3 ' very industrious, colonel,” said his cousin. 
” ou never lose an opportunity of paying compliments to Lad}’- 
M.ay. ” 

The heiress of Trevlyn listened with an unmoved smile. What 
were .all his compliments to her? One word from Sir Clinton w.as 
worth them .all. 

‘‘ It is a lovely wood,” she said; ” the bluebells stretch out like 
the waves of a blue sea : the primroses stand in great golden clusters ; 
there is every variety of wild flowers and trees. Here we are at 
last. Now, is it not a glorious wood?” 

There was a break among the trees, a wide stretch of thick, green 
grass, and they sat down, the sun shining .above them, and casting 
gr.aceful shadows on the grass below; the birds singing in tlie trees, 
the wind gently stirring the green boughs. They talked for some 
little time on desultory matters, until Sir Clinton said something 
about the flowers. 

Colonel Grantley answered him. 

” 1 think, he said, ” it was a pretty, fanciful, gr.aceful idea to 
call ladies by the names of flowers. 1 wish they bad no other 
names.” 

‘‘ They are not very numerous,” said Lady Lewis. 

‘‘ 1 do not know. We have Violet, Rose, Lily, Azalea, lly.acinth, 
D.aisy, and, hast and sweetest. May.” 

” That is a pretty long list,” s.aid X^ady Lewis. 

” 1 think the names .are so characteristic,” said the colonel; ” tor 
example, Violet should be tall, with meek, sweet eyes, and soft, 
brown hair, a sweet face, suggestive of dew .and moonliirbt. Rose, 
one pictures a lovely, laughing, happy girl, with sunshine in her 


122 


TiF/rWEEK TWO LOVEfi. 


eyes and on her hair. Lily, tall, pale, and slender, with large, in- 
nocent blue eyes, beautiful lips, and hair ot a pale gold. Azalea, 
dark, with a bewitching Spanish loveliness. Plyacinth, a girl to 
rave about under the light of the stars, dreary and mystical. Daisy 
— w'ell, Daisy puzzles me — a simple, pretty country lassie, 1 think, 
with wondering blue 03 ^ 8 , and a sweet, half saucy smile, piquant, 
with a certain quaint grace. May— oh, if 1 were a poet, I could sing 
ot May; as it is, 1 have before me fairest representative ot the 
fairest name. 1 once heard of a young lady called BluePells, but 1 
do not think the name a common one. 1 have often wondered why 
girls were not called after the lilac and the mignonette; what prettier 
girl’s name could we have than Verbena? Verbena, by the way, 
should be a tail, dark-eyed girl, with crimson lips. ” 

Lady May carelessly gathered a white daisy from the grass; she 
held it lovingly in her pretty fingers. 

” It is a beautiful flower,” she said; " if it were as rare as it is 
common we should all talk about it. 1 think it 'one ot the prettiest 
flowers that grow; and do you know,” she added, with a little 
laugh, ” 1 never cross a field if I can help it, lest 1 should trample 
upon a daisy. 1 could not bear to crush one beneath my feet; it 
would be like pressing the life from something living.” 

“ 1 shall take the daisy as my crest,” said Colonel Grantley; ” and 
every one 1 see, Lady Ma}'', 1 shall love for your sweet sake.” 

She turned her fair face and laughing eyes to Sir Clinton. 

” Have you nothing pretty to say to me?” she asked. ‘‘ Colonel 
Grantley is quite an adept in the art. Do you approve of my taste?” 

‘‘ Over daisies, you mean. Lady May?” 

“Yes, over these simple field-daisies,” she replied. 

The words seemed to stab him with keen, sudden pain. How 
often had he used them! Lady May gathered another— a large white 
daisy, round like a star, with creamy white petals, and a deep golden 
heart. 

“Is not that more beautiful than a hot-house blossom?” she 
asked. 

fiady Lewis laughed. 

“ Sir Clinton is blushing,” she said. 

He felt the hot crimson mount even to his brow. 

“ Why should 1 blush?” he said, calmly. 

“ Perhaps the little daisy suggests some tender love messages in 
the past,” laughed Colonel Grantley. 

“No,” said Lady May; “ Sir Clinton might blush over a rose or 
a violet— never over a daisy; it is too simple, too lowly for him.” 

Even as she spoke there rose before him the memory of a face, 
daintily sweet, with innocent blue eyes and sweet red lips. A meek, 
half -sad, half-reproachful, but wholly sweet face; ej'es like blue 
iiyaeinths, swimming in tears. A low voice seemed to say, “ Good- 
by, Caro, good-by,” Ah, what was he doing, lingering, loitering 
here? He flung the simple little flower to the ground, then raised 
it suddenly, as though he would caress it. 

“ Poor daisy!” said Lady May, and he looked at her in blank, 
wondering fear. 

“ Of whom are you speaking?” he asked. 

There was a general laugh at his expense. 


BETWEEN TWO LOVES. 


123 

“ 1 {un speaking of the daisy you first held in your hand, then 
flung away,” said Lady JMay, and again the words stabbed him with 
the keenest pain; they were so near'the truth that he trembled. 

Then lie rose suddenly. 

“ What nonsense we talk on these sunshiny mornings! ’ he said. 
“ {Surely we can find some other topic besides flowers; every one 
talks about flow^ers.’’ 

“1 think we have had a very interesting conversation,” said 
Colonel Grantley. “ 1 knew a girl named Daisy once.” 

Did you? Where and who?” asked Lady Lewis. 

” It was in India. But talk of simplicity — well, she did not go in 
tor that kind of thing; if there is anything in a name, hers should 
have been Dahlia.” 

“ 1 always thought Daisy was an abbreviation of Margaret,” said 
Lady May. 

Then they looked up in wonder, tor Sii Clinton had suddenly risen 
' from his lounging attitude, and had walked toward a large silver- 
birch tree. 

Lady Lewis laughed. 

” 1 could almost fancy that Sir Clinton had loved a Daisy,” she 
said; “ the very word seems to agitate him.” 

“No,” said Colonel Grantley; “he loves the white, sweet-per- 
fumed, mystical Ma}^ and he makes no secret of his love.” 

“ 1 will not hear another word,” said Lady May, “We must re- 
turn. What will Miss Lockwood say when she hears that wm have 
spent the morning in the wood?” 

But from that time something of regret came over Sir Clinton 
whenever he saw the pretty white flowers in the green grass, lie 
never forgot those words: 

“ Tou held a daisy in your hand, and then you flung it away.” 

That was what he had done— gathered the sweet, fresh, simple 
flower, and thrown it away. 

He wondered more than once if Colonel Grantley could possibly 
know anything about that fair young wife waiting for him in sunny 
France. Then he would waken up to a sudden sense of intolerable 
pain and self-contempt, hating himself even more than he hated 
his sin. 


CHAPTEK XXXlll. 

A LET'li'ER FROM PRANCE. 

“I CAN not make him out,” said Colonel Grantle 3 L “1 am 
afraid it is as you say, Louisa, that he is awfully in love with Lady 
May.” 

“lam sure of it,” interrupted Lady Lewis. “ I have watched 
him, and 1 do not think that he has n thought apart from her.” 

” Why [loes he not say so, Ihen? I do not understand it. If he 
loves her, and desires to marry her, why does he not say so?” 

“ You had better ask him, colonel; it is of no use growing angry 
with me.” 

“ 1 am not angry with you; but, all the same, you must own there 
is something absurd a])out it. If he loves her, and wants to marry 


124 


BETWEEN TWO LOVES. 


her, well and good — let him say so; if not, why docs he not go 
away, and leave the field open for others?” 

‘' That means for you.” 

‘‘Yes, for me,” replied the colonel. ”1 should never ‘shilly- 
shally ’ after that fashion If 1 loved a tvoman, 1 should say so, and 
ask her to marry me. 1 would do so at once; but he never allows 
me a chance. He is always with her, haunts her like her own 
shadow, looks daggers if any one else comes near her.” 

‘‘ All that would" not matter,” said Lady Lewis, ‘‘ unless in her 
turn, she liked him.” 

The colonel looked crestfallen. 

“ You are right,” he said. “ Now I come to remember, she makes 
his opportunities. Yesterday morning I had her for a whole de- 
licious ten minutes all to myself; we were on the croquet ground, 
and 1 was explaining some of our Indian games to her. She was so 
interested and so kind, when, all at once. Sir Clinton Adair cau?e 
out on the lawn. She forgot all about me; shci called him to her 
with a smile, and a look in her face that I would have given my life 
for. He came; but, Louisa, he did not look pleased. I should 
have been ready to fall on my knees in a transport of gratitude if 
she had shown so much attention to me.” 

‘‘ You would look well on 3 mur knees,” laughed his cousin. 
“ But 1 have noticed just the same thing. He looks half afraid of 
her, in some strange way; he looks confused and embarrassed, when 
another man would look happy.” 

‘‘ 1 do not think he is happy,” said the colonel. ‘‘ By the way, 
Louisa, it I tell you something, you will not repeat it?” 

‘‘ 1 will not,” said Lady Lewis. 

‘‘ Honor bright, as we say in the army,” cried Colonel Grantley. 

‘‘ Honor bright, as we say in the world,” she repeated. 

“Do you remember a conversation we had one morning about 
ladies’ names?” 

“ Pertectly well,” replied Lady Lewis. 

‘‘1 tbought,” continued the colonel, “that Sir Clinton seemed 
rather grim over it; he did not like it, evidently.” 

“ No,” acquiesced Lady Lewis; “ I do not think that he did.” 

“ lie came to me the same day and asked me it 1 had any meaning 
in what 1 said. 1 answered him that I hoped, for my own credit’s 
sake, there was meaning in all tliat Isaid. He grew quite impatient. 

“ ‘ Had you any particular person in your mind,’ he asked, ‘ when 
you were sketching those fancy portraits?’ 

“ 1 looked at him in astonishment. 

“ ‘ Certainly not,’ I replied. 

“ Then he seemed conf used — he apologized. 

“ ‘ 1 Imagined,’ he said, ‘ that it was so: and you are so open and 
trank, Colonel Grantley, 1 knew you would tell me if I asked you.’ 

“ ‘ Which of my fancy portraits struck you most?’ 1 asked. 

“ ' 1 am sorry that, not being able to imitate your fearlessness, I 
can not say,' be replied, with a smile. 

“ Now, Louisa, in thinking that over, do you know the conclusion 
1 have arrived at? It is this, that Sir Clinton has another love 
affair of some kind or other, which really keeps him from murrvin<i- 
Lady May,” ^ ® 


BETWEEif TWO LOVES. 


125 


“1 can not think it; 1 knew him years ago; 1 never heard his 
name mentioned in connection with any one else. She is, 1 believe, 
the one only love of his life-time.” 

” Well, 1 shall risk all,” said the colonel; ” 1 love her just as 
much as he does. 1 can make her happy, and 1 intend asking her 
to-day if she will be my wife.” 

” !She will say no,” replied Lady Lewis. 

The soldier’s handsome tace fell. 

‘‘Do you think so?” he replied, wistfully. ‘‘At all events, 1 
shall try it. 1 could not go on like Sir Clinton, waiting about, 
keeping every one else wretched. Yes or no for me at once.” 

‘‘And suppose she says no, colonel?” 

” Well — Heaven bless her beautiful lace — if she says no, 1 shall 
go off to India again and try to forget. 1 must either be all or 
nothing. If she dismisses me as a lover, 1 can not pretend to be her 
friend. If she will not marry me, 1 am ‘ off to the wars again.’ ” 

” Then 1 am afraid we shall say good-by. Women see further into 
these matters than men. Lady May is just as much in love with 
Sir Clinton as he is with her.” 

‘‘ Then why do they not marry? 1 will not believe it. If they 
cared about each other, why not marry? There is no obstacle; they 
are both rich, free, young, noble -1 can see no barrier. Perhaps, 
after all, Louisa, they are only old friends.” 

‘‘ You must try foryourself,” said Lady Lewis; and she felt sorry 
for the disappointment that was sure to fall on the handsome, gen- 
erous soldier. 

He made his offer that same day, and was, as a matter of course, 
refused. 

“ You have been so lofal and so frank with me,” said Lady May, 
“ that 1 will tell you the truth. Colonel Grantley. 1 can not marry 
you, because 1 have been engaged for years to one whom 1 love very 
dearly.” 

He looked at her with a wistful smile. 

‘‘ AVill you pardon me if 1 say a very impertinent thing, Lady 
May?” he asked. 

“ I will pardon you, because 1 know that you can never be really 
impertinent,” she replied. 

” 1 mean it in all kindness— in self-defense. If you have been en- 
gaged so long, why not either make your engagement public, or 
marry? You see, it is not fair to us; we see you so beautiful and 
so winsome, apparently free, and we can not help loving you. In 
pity to us, you ought to let this be Known. 1 must alw'ays admire 
you, but 1 would not have allowed myself to fall so hopelessly in 
love with you. had 1 known that jmu were engaged.” 

She looked thoughtfully at him. 

‘‘ 1 see,” she said; ” 1 had not thought of it in that light, 1 shall 
remember wrhat you have said. Colonel Grantley, and thank you 
tor it.” 

The following day was a day of mourning w^hen the handsome 
colonel took his"^ departure. 

The servants made their own very amusing comments upon the 
matter. 

‘‘ 1 know,” said the still-room maid, ” if 1 had to choose between 


BETWEEN TWO LOVES. 


126 

those two gentlemen, 1 should have taken the soldier. 1 think he 
is worth twenty of Sir Clinton; but 1 suppose my lady has sent him 
away.” 

Kor were the servants the only people who thought the frank, 
handsome soldier preferable to the more aristocratic Sir Clinton. 
On the day after his depaiture, some one said, during dinner, how 
much he was missed; he seemed to have taken half the brightness 
of the house away with him. Afterward, when Lady Lewis was at 
the piano— she never wearied of singing — Sir Clinton found a seat 
by Lady May. 

” 1 suppose,” he said, ” that the cause of our young soldier’s de- 
parture is no secret; every one seems to be discussing it.” 

“Every one is very impertinent, then,” she replied; “the 
colonel’s affairs concern no one else.” 

“ Kot even me?” he said. 

“ Oh, yes, you— you, of course; you are different. 1 meant these 
other people; they have no right to discuss him.” 

“ lie made his love too apparent to escape observation,” said Sir 
Clinton. 

“ They may talk as much as they like about his love, but—” 

Sir Clinton interrupted her. 

“ But they must not mention his rejection.” 

“ No; they have no right to mention that,” she replied, with 
some little warmth. “ 1 liked Colonel Grantley ; he was so honest and 
genuine, no one could help liking him.” 

“ 1 agree with you; and you have refused him. May?” . 

She looked up at him with surprise that he never forgot, 

“ Could 1 accept him?” she replied. “ What a strang^question 
for you to ask me!” 

She saw his great confusion and embarrassment, wondering what 
it could possibly mean. The impulse was strong upon hini to tell 
her the truth— she was wasting her life, throwing ft away. If he 
had only dared to tell her; but the knowledge of her great love for 
him, and of the intense pain it would cause her, was the chief rea- 
son why he hesitated. Lady May was looking at him; her clear, 
eloquent eyes seemed to read his soul through. 

“ How could 1 accept him or any one else, Clinton,” she said, 
“ when for the last three years 1 have considered myself youi' prom- 
ised wife?” 

lie would have given the world for courage to have told her then 
that he had a wife, an unloved wife of his own, and could never 
marry her ; but his lips refused to frame the. words; it seemed to him 
almost easier to die now than to- tell her. He bent down, and 
almost for the first time since his return, he kissed the white hands. 

“ You are too good,” he said; “ 1 am unworthy of you.” 

But she would not allow that ; he was her knight, her hero, worthy 
of all love, of all honor. That day seemed to bring them together. 
He was in an agony of self-reproach; but for him she might, per 
haps, have married this gallant, handsome soldier, and have been 
happy at last. The very sense he had of the wrong he had done, 
and was doing to her, made him more devoted to her. There was 
sotnething of his old manner— a loving, protecting tenderness, a 


BETWEEN TWO LOVES. 12 ? 

kind of appropriation of her— that bronglit happiness to the heart 
ot Lady INI ay. 

“ He has tested me,” she thought, ” and he has not found me 
wanting. He has stood hy gently, and vvatched Colonel Grantley 
fall in love with me. He knows that 1 am true to him, and shall 
be for evermore. I'iow he will ask me to be his wife without more 
delay.” 

The whole of that sunny day, after the colonel’s departure, she 
expected to hear those w^ords; but they w'ere not spoken. On the 
morning following, the weather w^asso beautiful, so fine, tlie sky so 
blue and cloudless, the air so full of fragrance, that it was impossi- 
l)le to remain within doors; they went out on to the broad western 
terrace, the ladies with some pretty fancy-work. Sir John J.,e\vis 
strolled away to the stables; Sir Clinton took a book to read aloud. 
They formed a most picturesque group, and Sir Clinton wa'J read- 
ing— seemingly to all of them, in reality to Lady May— when a serv- 
ant came to say that a gentleman w^as waiting to see Sir Clinton 
Adair, 

Sir Clinton raised his handsome head. 

” Are you quite sure,” he asked, ” that there is no mistake? 1 
do not expect any gentleman. Oh, you have a card, 1 see.” 

He took it. 

“ Mr. Fildes, from Messrs. Cooper. They are my solicitors. 1 
will see him.” 

” 1 hope,” said Lady May, anxiously, ” there is nothing the mat- 
ter.” 

“No,” he replied, carelessly; “there is nothing which can be 
the matter. 1 hope some one has found a coal mine on the estate.” 
Then he sighed to think how little happiness that could bring him. 

He followed the servant, and found Mr. Fildes waiting for him, 
he had a packet wdth him. He bowed to Sir Clinton. 

“Mr. Cooper received this early this morning from France, Sir 
Clinton, and as it is marked ‘ Immediate,’ he thought ihat he tiad 
t)etter send it to you at once.” 

Sir Clinton took the packet; his hand trembled as he opened, it. 
It contained a letter from France, from Leville, but written in 
French, in a hand that w^as strange to him. He read it hastily. It 
was from a Dr. Lecroix, written by the bedside of his wife, and it 
w'as to tell him that his wife, Mrs." Clifton, w’as lying in danger of 
death, and begged to see him. It added also that the writer, find- 
ing her almostalone, had provided her wdth nurses, and attended 
her liimself, finishing with the w^ords that Mr. Clifton was entreat- 
ed to come at once, as he was now the father of a beautiful little 
son, whose birth had taken place on the fourth of the mouth, and 
Mrs. Clifton had been dangerously ill ever since. 


CHAPTER XXXIV. 

A MAN OF MYSTERY 

Sir Clinton read that letter with the air ot a man sudde^ re- 
called from another world — he was dazed and bewildered. Daisy 
lying sick unto death, and he tlie father of a little son! 


128 


JJETWERN TWO LOVES. 


Mr. Fildrs wn-tchcd him narrowly— saw his lace change from its 
expression of careless inclilTerence to one of wonder and fear — saw 
the lips grow Mhite, and lire strong: limbs tremble. 

“1 hope, Sir Clinton,” he said, ‘‘ tliat you liavc no bad news. 
Mr. Cooper thought it must be something very urgent.” 

‘‘ 1 liope it may not tui’n out so bad,” he replieii, hardh" knowing 
what he said. ‘‘1 am much obliged to you for j'^our kindness in 
coming so quickly.” 

” Mr. Cooper wished me to ask if you would be in London this 
week, Sir Clinton; he has some papers for you to sign.” 

‘‘ No; 1 start for France to-da}". It may be some time before 1 
am in England again; business must w^ait until my return. 1 will 
write a letter of instruction to Mr. Cooper before 1 go.” 

Some refreshment was brought for the clerk, and Sir Clinton 
took his leave of him. lie went back to the garden, and it seemed 
to him that he must be walking in his sleep, must be dreaming. 
There wars the smooth, green lawn, the broad terrace ith its cool 
shade of trees; there were Lady Lewis and Lady May. He had not 
been away from them very long, yet a world seemed to lie between 
them. lie returned with the knowledge that Daisy was in danger 
and he bad a little son. 

He looked in the face of his fair young love. 1 think if he had 
been alone with her that moment,, he would have told her all; but 
Lady Lewis was with her, and the chance w^as lost, f^ady May 
looked at him with a smile. 

‘‘ You have not been long away,” she said. ‘‘ Here is your book; 
1 have kept the place, 5mu see.” 

He took it from her hands gravely, and laid it down upon the 
grass; then she noticed that he had the dazed, dreamy air of a man 
wdiose faculties arc stunned. He was gazing at her, uncertain udiat 
to say. 

“Clinton,” she asked, gently, “have you had any unexpected 
new’s— any unpleasantness?” . 

“ 1 have had very unexpected new^s,” he replied; “and, May, 1 
am very sorry, but 1 am compelled to leave Trevlyn. 1 am most 
grievously disappointed, but I must go to-day.” 

How tlie light died from her lovely face, leaving dull, anxious 
care behind! Her eyes drooped sadly from his. 

“ Going!” she said, and he never forgot the pathos of her voice 
— “ going! You can not mean it, Clinton. But, then, you will re- 
turn— you will not be long away?” 

“lam afraid not,” he replied; “ not just yet, 1 fear. 1 do not 
know quite when I shall be in England again.” 

“ In England! Are you going abroad, Clinton?” 

“ Y’es,” he replied, briefly; “ 1 am going to France.” 

She looked at him, her eyes swimming in tears, her lips quiv^er- 
ing. They had walked some little distance from wdiere J^ady J^ewis 
was sitting. 

“Clinton,” said Lady May, “do not be so reserved with mo; 
you punish me loo cruelly; you are too hard; you keep me outside 
your life. Tell me wliere you are going, and w'hy?” 

“ 1 am going,” he replied, “ on some business that \ left when 1 


BETWEEK TWO LOVES. 129 

Was in Prance before — business that 1 — I have neglected, and 1 have 
been suddenly summoned over to it.” 

‘‘ Is that all?” she said. ‘‘ 1 was afraid — 1 do not know of what. 
AYhen are you going?” 

” Immediately— that is, if you will permit one of your grooms to 
drive me to the station. 1 will return as soon as 1 can.” 

” 1 can not realize it,” she said. She was standing against the 
great rose-bushes, her eyes, shining through her tears, raised to his, 
her face blanched even to the lips, and sad as the face of a griev- 
ing child. ” 1 can not realize it, Clinton. 1 thought— I believed 
tliat we should never part again, 1 can not understand it.” 

She walked on, and he followed, drawn to her by the force of his 
passionate love, even though his wife lay sick unto death, and he 
had never seen his little son; he followed her, and they walked 
through the quiet, secluded path that led to the shrubbery. 

Had he nothing to say to her? she wondered, in a passion of 
anguish and grief. Now, at this last moment, would he not clasp 
her to his heart, kiss her face, tell her over and over again how 
dearly he loved her, pray her to be Ids wife? This is what she ex- 
pected; that is surely what he would do. He could not leave her 
in that cruel uncertainty, at a loss to tell whether he cared for her, 
and whether he w’anted to marry her or not — whether he wished her 
to settle their wedding-day or not. Surely now, in this last hour, 
he would break the mysterious silence that surrounded him. Slowly 
and sadly Lady May walked by his side, her wonder amounting to 
keenest pain; but never a word said he. 

” Clinton,” she said, gravely, ‘‘ 1 have often wondered as to 
wdiether I did right or wrong on the evening when 1 paid that visit 
to you. Sometimes 1 think that if 1 had not sought you, you 
would never have sought me— am 1 right?” 

She was indeed so near the truth as to startle him. 

“ 1 never dared to hope that you could forgive me,” he said. ‘‘ 1 
am not sure 1 should have had the courage to speak to you had we 
met accidentally.” 

‘‘ But now,” she said—” now that you see 1 am sorry — 1 did not 
mean it — 1 repented of it?” 

“Now,” he replied, sadly, “I should never be afraid of you 
again. 1 shall write to you, May, and you — well, perhaps, you 
will be busy?” 

” Never too busy to write to you,” she said, with some little in- 
dignation. 

” My address will be uncertain for some time; 1 shall be travel- 
ing about. If you write to me, send your letters, addressed to me, 
to my solicitors, Messrs. Cooper & Co.; they will forward them 
with their own.” 

She was more indignant than she cared to own. 

” Is this going to be another mysterious absence?” she asked. 

He looked confused. 

“No, not mysterious, certainly not; but. May, 1 must go. My 
train starts at one, 1 have barely time to catch it.” 

” You will take some lunch, some refreshment before you go, 
surely, Clinton?” 


130 


BETWEEK TATO LOYBS. 


“ No,*’ he replied; “ I can not; 1 'want nothing. 1 can only think 
of one thing now, and that is, 1 have to say good-by 1o you.” 

” But wliy need you? You could surely go to France and return 
soon; you need r<^t be so long aw’ay; and you — oh, Clinton, you 
make me say wbat i should not say; but this vague restraint and 
coldness that seem to have arisen be'^tween us ever since our recon- 
ciliation is all cl your doing— none ot it is mine. You are changed, 
cold, reserved; you keep me outside your owm life, outside your 
heart. You punish me too cruelly for tne wrong 1 did; you might 
forgive me now^” 

” i forgave you when you asked me,” he said, hoarsely; ” do not 
tempt me too far.” 

She stopped liim with a wondering ciy. 

” 1 empt you! Oh, Clinton, how strangely you talk!” 

‘‘ 1 do,” he said, hurriedly, taking her hand; ‘‘ You must forgive 
me, and not think of it when 1 am gone 1 am anxious and half 
scared by this sudden news.” 

” Is it loss ol money, Clinton?” she asked; ” because if it he so, 
you can have all mine.” 

” No; it is not loss of money; but another time 1 shall be able to 
tell you more. 1 must go.” 

She stood quite silent and motionless. 

” Are you really going to leave mein this fashion?” she asked, 
something of the old proud spirit flashing through the whiteness ot 
her face. She looked steadily at him. Do you really remember,” 
she asked, with sudden passion — ‘‘do you remember that you are 
Clinton Adair and 1 am May Trevlyn? Whal has come over you? 
— what has changed you, Clinton? If you have ceased to love me, 
for Heaven’s sake, tell me so! Even your hate would be better than 
this unnatural calm, this dreadful inditTerence.” 

‘‘ There is neither carelessness nor indifference in ”my heart. May, 
believe me. There is nothing save cruel love and cruel pain.” 

‘‘ Why should you call love cruel?” she asked bitterly. ‘‘ It is 
men who are cruel; they are worse than cruel.” 

May.” he cried, ” do not say a word of reproach to me! Oh, 
my love! my love! believe me, 1 care for you as 1 care for no other 
woman under the broad, blue heavens. Believe me that 1 love you 
with my whole heart. 1 could not. if 1 would, love you more.” 

She relented at his words, for she detected the true ring of pain 
in them'. She held out her hand, with a smile. 

‘‘ Then, if it be so, Clinton, why are you so reserved with me?” 

‘‘ 1 am a wretched, despairing, storm-tossed man!” he cried; and 
even when he uttered those words, she doubted his sanity rather 
than his truth and fidelity. ‘‘ 1 must go. May,” he repeated, in the 
saiiio dulled voice of pain; ” every moment is precious now.” 

For halt a minute she was tempted to ask him if he 'wished to 
renew the old tie betw^een them— if he wished to make her his wife; 
but prudence restrained her ; she had humbled herself enough to 
him. 

‘‘ You will say good-by to Miss Lockwood in the house?” she 
said. 

‘‘ Yes; and you will make my fare'well to your friends— 1 have 
not lime. We shall have to drive post to the station.” 


BETWEEN TWO LOVES. 131 

“ There is a great aifTerence between this parting and the last,” 
she said. 

” Ah, Heaven, how great!” he muttered between his teeth. He 
took her hand in his; he held it lor one minute, looking at it. 
” Good-by,” he said, in a voice broken by pain. ” L would to 
Heaven this sweet, white hand could stab me where 1 standi” 

” 1 do not,” she replied. 

His eyes were fixed with a burning, passionate gaze on her face— 
a long, lingering look that she never foigot. 

” Good-by,” he said; “ 1 wish you all the happiness this world 
can give you.” 

‘‘ And that will be none without yon,” said Lady May. 

She did not try to check her tears or her sighs. He bent down 
and touched her face with his lips, and the cry that came from them 
was like the cry of a lost soul. 

” Oh, my love, my fair young love, good-by!” he said; and the 
next moment he had left her. 

I3he never remembered how the time passed, until, with a dull 
clang that fell startlingly on the quiet air, she heard the clock strike 
one. He had started by that time, and she should, perhaps, never 
see him again. 

It was Lady Lewis who aroused her; she came walking slowly 
down the quiet path. 

” Are you here. Lady May ?” she asked. ” 1 could not find you. 
Where is that man ot mystery?” 

‘‘ Whom do you mean?” asked Lady May. 

Her friend laughed. 

” 1 mean Sir Clinton Adair. He is a man of mystery; he is like 
the man in the iron mask — no one can make him out.” 

” What has he done?” she asked, trying to speak lightly. 

” He has gone away, and gone without a word to any ot us.” 

‘‘ He left his adieux to me,” she said. ” He begged me to make 
them for him.” 

” Then he did not quite forget us,” said Lady Lewis. ” It 
seems strange that he should be summoned in such haste. Where 
has he gone?” 

“ He has important business in France,” she replied. 

‘‘ In France?” laughed Lady Lewis. “It is not often that an 
English baronet has such particular business in France.” 

]\liss Lockwood was bitterly annoyed. 

“ 1 can not understand him, IMay. There are no secrets between 
us, and you say that he has never even mentioned the word mar- 
riage to you?” 

“ He has never, even ever so distantly, alluded to it,” said Lady 
May. 

“ And yet, do you know,” continued Miss Lockwood, “ that 1 
should be templed to say he loves you better than ever. He gives 
me that impression. Well, men are difficult to deal with, even the 
best ot them, and Sir Clinton is one of the best.” 

That was Lady May’s only consolation in all the bitterness of her 
disappointment, in all her sorrow at parting with him. In all her 
long hours ot bitter, dull pain, it was her consolation to remember 
that she had fancied he loved her better than ever, 


BETWEEJS' TWO LOVES. 




That was the secret of his strange conclucl. She should know 
some clay, and she said to herself, no matter what it was, no matter 
whether he ever returned to claim her love or not, she would be true 
to Jier love — true to him until her life’s end. 


CHAPTER XXXV. 

COMPLETELY BEWILDERED. 

Before evening that same day, Sir Clinton was on his way to 
France. He was fortunate enough to be in time for the Dover boat, 
and the journey was made as speedily as possible. As he lelt Eng- 
land and drew near France, the beautiful image of his fair young 
love seemed to fade before that of Daisy. 

“ Vou held a daisy in your hand, and you flung it away.” 

Great Heaven! how fatally true the words had been. Poor, 
pretty, simple Dais}’-, who had loved him so \vell that she was ready 
to die for him! How had he repaid her sweet, simple love? How 
had he cherished and guarded the innocent field-flower that he had 
gathered for himself? flow dearly she loved him! He remembered 
the expression of her face as she looked at him that last day, and he 
had hardly thought of her since. 

He had WTitten to her, at times, short letters without one wmrd of 
the love that she craved tor; he had told her to send her letters ad- 
dressed to Mr. Clifton, care of Messrs. Cooper. She accepted what 
he told her in all good faith, and never asked why it was to be so. 
She had written to him — his conscience reproached him most bitter- 
ly as he remembered long letters, uniead and uanswered. It was 
six months since he left her. Ah, well, there was no excuse for l»im, 
DO palliation of his offense. He never delayed one hour until he 
reached Leville. He remembered their visit to the pretty cemetery, 
and Daisy’s sad words. He prayed to Heaven they might not be 
fulfilled — that she might not be laid to sleep near the grave of the 
man who had died for love. His poor, pretty young wife, whose 
only fault was that she had loved him to^well! The very wheels 
of the carriage, as they turned so swiftly, seemed to repeat the re- 
frain of the quaint, simple song he had heard her singing: 

“ Oh, mother, mother, make my bed. 

And spread the milk-white sheets.” 

He remembered the plaintive voice, the tender lace, and he cursed 
himself for his own hardness in leaving her alone so long. As the 
hours wore on, and he drew near to his journe3'^’s ena, his fears in- 
creased; he dare not raise his face to the distant heavens and pray. 
He did not disguise his own sin. 

”1 am not worthy,” he said to himself; ‘‘no blessing from 
Heaven can rest upon me. 1 would fain pray tor her if 1 dared.’' 

Would he find her living or dead? Daisy in danger of death! — 
the sweet, simple, child-like face thin and cold in the still, white 
majesty of death! It was terrible. He had but little thought for 
the unknown child, his son and heir. 

” f:he never told me,” he thought to himscif, with a deep sigh— 


BETWEEI^ TWO LOVES. 


133 

“ she never lold me; 1 suppose she thouglit 1 should not care. And 
this little child, whom 1 have never seen, is the heir ot the Adairs 
of East wold.” 

lie thought but little of the child— much of its mother. When 
in the far distance he saw the purple, vine-clad hills, the rich green 
olives, and the tail trees, he knew that he was near his horned and 
he sighed deeply. He wms afraid. Would she be living or dead? 

It she were dead, he should feel like her murderer; if living, he 
should be thankful. 

Once more he stood in the pretty, artistic room where so many 
dreary months had been spent, almost a stranger in his own home. 
To him, as he stood there, descended a nurse, and he knew how 
great his fear had been w’hen his trembling lips almost refused to 
speak the words: 

” How is Mrs. Clifton?” 

The nurse was one of those quick, ready-witted women who seem 
to have every sense doubled. 

‘‘This is madam’s husband,” she thought to herself; “and, by 
his agitation, he loves her.” 

‘‘ llow is madam?” he asked. 

The w’oman’s quick, sympathetic face underw^ent a rapid change. 

” Madam is very iH, but no doubt she will be better now that 
monsieur has arrived. She is always talking ot monsieur.” 

” And — the little one?” 

Another change of the expressive face. 

‘‘ Thanks to Heaven! the little one is w^ell, charming— everything 
that could be desired— a beautiful boy. Will monsieur see madam 
now?” 

He followed her like one in a dream. He said to himself that it 
was Daisy whom he was going to see— his wife, Daisy, and his 
little son, the heir of Eastwold. 

The room was strangely hushed ; the whole house was strangely 
silent. He looked in eagerly. There lay the sweet face on the white 
pillows— sweet as ever, but wasted and wan, without the lovely 
bloom and the lovely dimples — a white Daisy indeed; and, as he 
looked at her, the same words returned to him — ” You held a daisy 
in your hand, and flung it away.” 

” You will be very quiet, very tranquil, monsieur,” said the 
sweet-voiced nurse; ‘‘ any agitation would kill madam.” 

Yes, he would be quiet. Poor, pretty Daisy! Had he been kind 
to her after all? He had married her to save her life, but she was 
dying now. He looked at her pale^ sweet face — so pale, with 
great dark circles round the eyes; then he started suddenly, for the 
sweet eyes were open and looking earnestly into his. 

” Caro,” whispered a faintvoice — ” Caro, are you come at last?” 

And then, although he loved Lady May, and she who lay there 
w'as his unloved wife, Sir Clinton Adair knelt by the betlside and 
wept. 

‘‘ Caro,” whispered the sweet voice, ” 1 have a little son — did 
you know?” He kissed the while hand that trembled as she 
tried to raise it. ‘‘ Such a pretty little son. 1 did not tell you; I 
thought you would not be pleased.” 

He controlled his emotion, and tried to speak calmly. 


134: 


r.ETWEEX TWO LOVES. 


“ Why did you tiiink that, Daisy?’! he asked. 

“ Mrs. De Grey told me ihat husbands only loved children v/hen 
they loved their wives.” 

” Do you imagine, then, Daisy, that 1 do not love you?” he 

” 1 know it,” she replied, sadly; ” and that was the reason 1 did 
not tell you about my little son. No matter what they said to me 
about try in" to get well, 1 wished to die.” 

” Oh, Daisy, Daisy, you torture me!” he said. 

” No, 1 do not mean to do that,” she replied. “ 1 suppose other 
women, happy wives whose husbands love them, pray to live, Caro 
— above all, when they have a little son — do they not?” The 
sweet, sad eyes were looking so earnestly at him. “I praved to 
die that you might be free, tor it was a mistake, Caro, that mar- 
riage of ours — such a terrible mistake. 1 saw how husbands loved 
their wives when I Knew Mr. and Mrs. De Grey.” 

She lay still and silent for some few minutes, then she looked at 
him gently. 

” You have been aw'ay some time, Caro— -a long time. 1 began 
to think you would never return ” 

Heaven help him! No lash of a whip could have been harder to 
bear than those tew wmrds— so long away. And what had he 
done? How had he spent his time while his wite was fading, 
drooping, and dying here? 

” Caro, would you not like to see my little son?” 

]t struck him as being so strange that she did not say ” our son.” 
Indeed, it was a peculiarity of hers that she never alluded to the 
child except as her owm. The nurse came, carrying the little one 
in her arms. At first it seemed to Sir Clinton that he saw a bundle 
ot white lawn and lace; then a light, sudden and beautiful, came 
over Daisy’s face as she held out one feeble arm. M’ilh her own 
hand she uncovered the little face— a sweet, rosy, innocent holy 
lace, charming as a pictured angel. 

” This is my boy Caro,” she said. ” 1 have given him no name; 
1 would not until you came.” 

Her wistful young face and wistful eyes w’ere turned toward 
him; they seemed to say, “Do praise my baby.” All a mother’s 
gentle pride and gentle pleading w^ere in tliose sw^eet, sad eyes. Sir 
Cinlou could not resist them. The child w^as really beautiful, with 
pink, rounded limbs, and a lovely little dimpled hice, with some- 
thing like golden down in the place of hair. He praised him until 
the young mother’s eyes filled with tears, and she began to sob. 
That was exactly opposite to the eHect he had intended to produce, 
and it bewildered him. 

“’Why, Daisy, why do you cry?” he asked, with all a man’s 
ignorance of a w’ornan’s feelings. 

“ 1 was so afraid that you would not like him,” sobbed Daisy. . 

“ Not like him! Why, how could you think soV A lovely, in- 
nocent little child like that, w ho could help liking him?” 

“ But,” said Daisy, still unconvinced, “ they say that his face is 
just like mine.” 

“ ISo it is,” he replied; “ 1 can see the resemblance myself.” 

“And yet you like him?” said Daisy, in a kind ot rapture. 


BETWEEN TWO LOVES. 13o 

“ now good of you, Caro. 1 wish that he had been the very image 
ot you.” 

then came the nurse. Madam had talked quite long enough. 
She must rest now. 

” One word more,” said Daisy. 

She tried to raise her hand and draw her husband’s face down to 
hers, but she could not. 

” 1 want to whisper to you, Caro,” she said 

lie bent down until his handsome face touched hers, but he did 
not kiss her— even the nuise noted that. 

Shall you go away again?” she asked, faintly. 

” No,” he answered; and w’hen he spoke he meant what he said. 

Then the doctor came, W’ho saluted Mr. Clifton gravely, wonder- 
ing what kind of a man this w^as who could go and leave so fair a 
wife for long months together. He did not give a very favorable 
report of Daisy. 

” She was very weak,” he said, ” nervous, and low-spirited.” 

lie did not spare monsieur, but told him how he used to come day 
after day, and hnd her alwa3’'S the same, w'eeping as though her 
heart would break. 

” 1 used to tell her that she w'ould dissolve altogether— that she 
was a fountain of tears. It giieved me much to see tier. The 
color is all washed from her face, the light from her ej^es, by tears. 
If madam should be left alone again 1 should recommend a female 
companion.” 

” 1 will see to it,” said Sir Clinton, hastily, ” Madam will not 
be left alone just j’et, at least. Do you thinR she will recover?” 

” 1 can not give a decision yet. 1 should sa}-^ myself, from what 
1 have seen ot madam, that a little gleam ot happiness will do more 
for her than all my medicine.” 

Sir Clinton thought to himself that she should have it, at least, if 
it were in his power to give it 

Then the doctor went away. 

The nurse sent a message to the effect that the house was to be 
kept very silent, for, after long w\aking hours, madam had fallen 
into a deep, peaceful slumber. 

ODce*more Sir Clinton Adair stood out under the stars alone. 
No longer a halt-cloudy English sky over his head, but one so 
bright, so far away, gleaming with the pale, pure radiance of a 
thousand stars. He was completely bewildered. 

He walked up and dowm between the rows of orange trees. 

” If I were to tell my story to any one.” he said, ” ihej" would 
think me the greatest villain under the sun; yet 1 have not done 
wrong purposely; circumstances have been against me — have drawn 
rrie into a labyrinth. No one hates sin, hates evil-doing, more than 
1; yet who has done worse? 1 did not intend it. 1 have gone 
w^rong because 1 had not the courage to look into my love’s face 
and tell her 1 had married another. 1 had not the courage to un- 
twine her sweet white arms from m\’’ neck and tell her they had no 
place there. 1 have suffered since for my cowardice.” 

What was he to do? To write to Lady May and confess the 
whole truth?— tell her he had a wife and child living here in 


13G 


TWO LOVES. 

France, throw himself on her rojrcy and pity, always so great, then 
stay away from England until it was forgotten? 

That would have been the right, honest, honorable, loyal course; 
and for some time he felt that he would pursue it; then the tempta- 
tion of his idolatrous love canie over him again, and he persuaded 
himself that to* receive such news so abruptly would kill Lady May. 


CHAPTER XXXVI. 

A wife’s suspicions. 

It was a long, lingering illness. More than once the doctor gave 
up all hopes of Daisy, believing it was quite impossible tor her to 
recover. But she rallied after all; a taint, lovely color crept back 
into her beautiful face; her lips took a faint tinge of red; her eyes 
lost their dim, dreamy look— she was to recover. 

Sir Clinton was unfeignedly thankful tor it. If she had died he 
would have thought himself her murderer; as it was, he was grate- 
ful to Heaven for its mercy. Her recovery was long and tedious; 
he could not leave her even for one day. If he spent many hours 
awa}’’ from her, on his return he was* sure to find her worse, her 
face grown paler, and her trembling lips would say : 

“ Where have you been, Caro?” 

He would tell her how he had spent his time, and she would 
reply : 

“ 1 am always so afraid of losing you again; but you will not go, 
will you?” 

He assured her no, he would not leave her; then she would be 
content. 

He wrote to Lady May, telling her his business in France would 
detain him, and left it a matter of great uncertainty when he should 
return. He wrote it, knowing full well that he was guilty of fraud 
and deceit, yet not knowing how to extricate himself from the 
difliculty. 

After that he had but little time tor writing. It was not Daisy 
herself who made such continual demands on him. but her nurse, 
who, choosing to believe monsieur a model husband, was always 
asking him to do something for madam. “ Would he talk to 
madam a little— she felt melancholy and dull? Would he read to 
her? Would he give madam his arm while she walked across the 
room?” Then he found himself searching the country-side for 
dainties. Dais}’’ wanted tile sunniest fruits, the sweetest wines, the 
freshest flowers; and through it all he was patient, kind, and attent- 
ive, as though he loved her. 

He could not help admiring her, when Daisy held her lovely little 
son in her white arms; she looRed like a picture; there was a serene 
beauty in her face new to it — the beauty of the young mother, 
happy in the possession of her first child. She was so" sweet, so 
gentle, so patient, that he grew interested in watching her. He saw 
that she never voluntarily made any demand on his services. Very 
often, wdien the nurse asked some little help from him, she w’ould 
decline, and say, ” Pray don’t trouble Mr. Clifton so much.” 


BETWEEN TWO LOVES. 137 

It was embarrassiug to hear the nurse reply, smiling as she spoke. 

“ It is no trouble to him, marlam, but a pleasure.” 

She herself never made any demand upon him; she seemed to 
shrink from giving him trouble. She would often decline his as- 
sistance, or, if she accepted it, apologize for the pain she was giving 
him. 

” Wliy do you seem to think that everything 1 do for you is a 
fatigue to me, Daisy?” he asked her once. 

“ Is it not, Caro?” 

“Mo; far from it; 1 like to wait upon you and this young heir of 
ours.” 

The words slipped from him unthinkingly. Daisy looked up 
with a smile. 

“ Wiiat is he the heir of?” she asked. “ This home among the 
olives and vines? — it is not ours, Caro, to give him.” 

Tlien he asked himself should he tell Daisy his real name and 
position — tell her that the little babe lying in her arms was heir of 
Eastwold— a descendant of the Adairs — that he would hold his own 
with the noblest men in a noble land? Should he tell this to his 
gentle, lovely, young wife? 

No. he decided; he would speak of his affairs to no one until 
they had been told frankly to Lady May; his marriage should be 
kept secret until she knew it. When Daisy was quite well — well 
enough for him to leave her— he would return to England, and 
then, driven to bay, he would confess all to Lady IMay. He knew 
now how she would receive his confession — he could see the shadow 
fall over her beautiful face. She would say good-by to him for- 
ever; they could not be friends; he loved her, she loved him, too 
well for mere friendship; they would live as strangers; but long as 
she did live, he knew she would be true and faithful to him. 

“1 have wrecked her life as well as my own,” he said aloud, 
forgetting Daisy’s quiet presence. 

She looked up at him. 

“ Whose life have you wrecked, Caro? Are you speaking of 
me?” she replied, quietly. 

” No,” was the hurried reply. “ I was merely thinking aloud.” 

“ But have you wrecked any one’s life?” she asked, with straight- 
forward, earnest gravity. 

“No, no; it is but a figure of sfeecli— a quotation, Daisy; it 
means nothing.” 

“ It has a terrible sound, even if it be without meaning. You 
have not wrecked my life, Caro; you meant to make me happy 
when you married me.” 

“ And have 1 not succeeded?” he asked, gently “ Are you not 
happy, Daisy?” 

“ In one way,” she replied. “ My little boy makes you happy; but 
you (In not love me, Caro, and 1 have found it out.” 

“ Why should you say that 1 do not love jou? Have lever 
shown you anything except kindness, Daisy?” 

“ No; but kindness is not love. 1 have read of love that had lit- 
tle kindness in it; 1 have known kindness that had no love. 1 am 
kind to Bediua, because she is a faithful servant; you are kind to 
me.” 


BETAVEEK TWO LOAVES. 


138 

He looked at her wouderiiiirly. Surely a new life was coining to 
his simple, field Daisy. Here were sentiments and ideas with 
which he had not even imagined her to be acquainted. 

“ Daisy,” he said, curiously, ” tell me, how did you, first of all, 
come to think that 1 did not love you?” 

She looked at him wistfully, as though thinking whether he 
would contradict it; then she said: 

‘‘ 1 have watched other people. At first — that is, when we were 
first married— 1 thought you loved me, and 1 believed that 5 ’^ou had 
married me for love.” 

‘‘ And afterward?” he said, finding that she paused. 

“Afterward 1 read a great deal about love; and 1 found that 
ycrurs for me was not like anything that was in books. In books, 
all true love is careful and continuous. Then we met the De Greys. 
Now, Mr. De Grey loves his wife very much indeed. 1 watched 
him and watched you; I compared the two; there was a terrible 
difference.” 

He looked up in an amused sort of way, as though she were speak- 
ing of some third person in whom he was but slightly interested. 

“ What was the difference?” ne asked. 

“ It showed itself in a thousand different ways,” she replied, her 
pale, sweet face flushing and her lips trembling. “ He used to kiss 
her when he went out and when he came in.” 

He could not resist a smile at this naive remark. 

“ Have 1 never kissed you, Daisy?” he asked. 

“ Not that I remember. Yes, 1 think you did when you were 
going away; but it was just such a kiss as you would give baby 
\jere, not such as a husband gives to the wife he loves.” 

“ But, Daisy, who has taught you all this?” he asked. 

“ Love is a quick teacher,” she replied. “ 1 have had no other.” 

Her face was patient, so resigned, her voice so sad, that he could 
not smile again. 

“ You bring a terrible array of evidence against me, DalS 3 ^” he 
said — “ terrible!” 

“ The worst part about it is its perfect truth,” she replied. “ If 
I had imagined or exaggerated, it would be quite different. You 
know, Caro,” she continued, “ I have been so many long months 
alone, 1 have liad time to think over all these things. Two questions 
have especially puzzled me.” 

“ What are they?” he asked, quickly. 

“ The first is, why you married me? The second is, whether you 
have ever cared for any one else?” 

“ And what conclusion has my pretty little wife arrived at?” he 
asked. 

“ None at all, Caro. If you did not love me, wliy did you marry 
me? I had no money, no influence, nothing that gentlemen like 
you value.” 

“Y’ou will not deny that you had once a very pretty face 
Daisy?” he said, lightly. 

Sue looked pitifully at him. 

“ Y^ou have seen prettier,” she said. “ Y^ou called me*a field- 
daisy once -you have seen far more brilliant flowers. It could not 
have been for my beauty.” 


BETWEEN TWO LOVES. 139 

“ Men generally marry for one of those things,” he said, ” either 
for beauty, lor love, or for money.” 

” It was not for either of the three that you married me,” said 
Daisy, gentl 3 \ ‘‘ What could have tempted you, 1 wonder? Vou 
wmuid marry me. 1 remember my surprise and wonder quite as 
vividly as I remember my delight.” 

‘‘ You were delighted, then, Daisy?” 

” Yes, certainly 1 was; but it is useless.” 

“ 1 will tell you what is even more useless, Daisy, when people 
are married — speculating as to what they married for.” 

” But you do not love me, Caro,” she said, ” and that makes me 
wonder. ’ ’ 

They sat in silence some little time, then she looked up at him 
with the eagerness of a child. 

” Caro,” she said, “ should you be angry with me if 1 asked a 
favor from you?” 

“No; 1 should be pleased to grant it,” he replied, quickly. 

” 1 want my mother to come and live with me,” she said. ” You 
see, it is very dull for me. Nurse is going; 1 can not talk to Bedina, 
and 1 have no one to speak to.” 

Why, Daisy, you have me— 1 am here,” he said, surprised. 

” But you do not care for my conversation. Ah, Caro, Caro, do 
you think that 1 am blind, dear? How often, even when 1 am 
speaking to you, a distant, far-off looh comes^in ymur ejms. And 
then 1 know that your thoughts are far from me. You smile and 
answer at random; you do not hear one half that 1 say.” 

” i\t least, i hear every wmrd now, Daisy.” 

” Y^es, because 3 ^ou are paying attention. 1 should like m 3 '' mother 
to live here. I want some one to whom 1 could talk about my 
baby.” 

” Can you not talk to me about him?” 

‘‘ No,” replied Daisy, frankly, ” lean not, because 1 have a cer- 
tain feeling that you are not really interested — that you only pretend 
to listen. Then your twisting round my bab 3 ^ seems to me the very 
pivot on which the whole world turns. And do you know what you 
have done— not once, but many times?” 

‘‘ No; 1 must plead guilty. Have 1 been very remiss?” 

” You will be the best judge of that. Y'ou have spoken of bab 3 ’' 
as though he were a little girl— you have said ‘ her ’ instead of ‘ him,’ 
‘she,’ instead of ‘he.’ Now, 1 think,” said Daisy, with sudden 
gravity and sudden dignity—” 1 think that there must be something 
very wrong when a man forgets his own child.” 

8ir Clinton laughed— he could not help it; but his e 3 ^es drooped 
before the tender^ earnest gaze of the young mother, so brave in the 
defense of her child. 

“ Then,” resumed Daisy, her fair head bending over the little one 
in her arms—” then 1 am like all other mothers, very proud of my 
darling, and 1 want some one to help me admire him. 1 open the 
little dimpled hand, and theie is no one for me to show it to; when 
he looks fair and placid. 1 can not say to any one, ‘ Come and see 
how lovely baby looks.’ ” 

“The fact is,” said Sir Clinton, ” you want a baby- worshiper, 
Dais3^” 


140 


BET^yEEK T^ro LOVES. 


“ I want a baby-lover,” she replieQ; and her husbaurtlaiifthed 
good-humoredly. 

” You shall liave your wish and desire, Daisy; after all, it is a 
very natural one. Y'ou shall have your mother to live with you. 
Will it make you happier?” 

” Yes, much happier,” she replied. 

” Then it shall be done. 1 would do anything in the world to 
make you happy, Daisy.” 

‘‘ That 1 believe,” she said. 

” Why do you speak in that peculiar tone, then?” he asked. 

” Because,” she replied, ” you are good to me; you will give me 
kindness, you will give me happiness; because you can not give me 
lore.” 

And the words were so perfectly true that they struck him with 
wonder. She was growing quite clever — this simple iield-daisy ot his. 


CHAPTER XXXVII. 

” I WILL FIND HER OUT.” 

Another month, and Daisy was getting well; she could go out 
now, and the sweet breath of the perfumed liir brought a faint color 
to her sweet face. But the Daisy who walked with a thoughtful 
face over the vine-clad hills was no longer the simple, sweet girl 
who accepted her husoand as a hero, 'and thought he could ao no 
wrong. 

The birth ot the little child seemed to have quickened her evei y 
sense, her every instinct. Things that she had passed over before, 
as a matter of course, now became of great moment to her. 

‘‘ For the boy’s sake,” became the one great motive ot her life. 
For his sake she longed to know more. 

When she thought over this past of hers, it seemed very myste- 
rious. Why had he married her? Why had he lett her? Why had 
he remained so long away? For whole hours together Daisy would 
wander over the hills, asking herselt these questions, and quite una- 
ble to give herself any answer. ” The boy ” made her valiant. She 
would submit to no wrong for his sake. If she had been alone, 
she would have drooped and died; her mother-love made her cou- 
rageous. She would understand more — know more ot her husbnd, 
and w'hat he meant. 

lie must have loved her, or he would not have asked her to be 
his wife. What had happened since their marriage? She could re- 
member nothing that she had done. She had been kind, faithful, 
and tender. She asked herself w’hy bad he brought her to this 
lonely, out of-the-way spot? Did he intend to spend the whole of 
her life here, and never to know more ot him or his affairs than she 
knew now? — never to see his friends, never to enter into his life, but 
to live among these purple, fragrant hills until she died? 

It could not be. A wife was entitled to share in her husband’s 
life, to know iiis friends, to understand his affairs. She did not. 
even know the source from which his income was deriverl. For the 
boy’s sake, matters must be placed on a very different fooling. But 


BT/rWF.RN- T^^0 LOVRS. 


141 


the question that trout>le(l lier more than any other was, had he, 
since he married her, learned to care for any one else? What had 
kept him so lon^? away from her? She must find out. 

Slie devoted herself to that task— it was not a very difficult one. 
It was easy to see from his absorbed manner, from his fits of deep 
thought and abstraction, tnat his mind was elsewhere; and once — 
Daisy never forgot that hour; it was the early dawn of the morn- 
ing, and she was frightened — there was an unusual noise in the 
house, and she fancied some one w^as breaking into it. Hastily 
throwing on a dressing-gown, she went to her husband’s room to 
arouse him. Even in the midst of her fear she could not help 
w’atching him as he slept — the handsome, haggard face, with its 
deep lines of pain. She touched him lightly, speaking in a whis- 
per. Suddenly his face lighted up. 

“ My love! my love!” he cried. ” Oh, how 1 have missed you !” 

Then his dazed, half-waking eyes fell on the face of Daisy. His 
voice changed to a tone of cold, indifferent surprise. 

” Is that you, Daisy? You startled me.” 

She W’as a warm-hearted, impetuous w’oman, this sw’eet Daisy, 
and she felt very much inclined to throw down the taper she held 
in her hands and stamp her little feet on the ground. 

What did he mean? Who was his love —his love?— on wdiom he 
had called in a voice like sweetest music — in a voice that even on 
their wedding-day he had never used to her? 

” My love! my love’ Oh, how' 1 have missed you!” 

He had not missed her; she was there with him. Of whom was 
he speaking? She did not even know that his voice could take such 
loving, tender tones; and, as all these thoughts passed thiough her 
mind, she stood still, looking fixedly at him, forgetting everything 
else in this one wonder. 

“ Why are you looking at me so, Daisy?” he asked. ” What is 
the matter?” 

She had forcotten the fancied noise, the house-breakers, and all 
else; his words seemed to rouse her. 

” What do 1 want?” she repeated, with the vacant air of one who 
had forgotten her message. ” 1 came to tell you that — that 1 heard 
a strange noise, and 1 tear there are thieves in the house.” 

” You have not hurried on your mission, Daisy,” he said, with a 
good-tempered laugh; “they have had time to get in wdiile you 
have been looking at me.” 

” You amazed me,”shesaid, in her earnest, straightforward way. 
” Do you know wdiat you said before you were quite awake?” 

‘‘ Ko,” he replied; ” that 1 certainly do not.” 

She told him, still keeping her unchanging eyes on his face. 

‘‘ Caro,” she asked, ” who is this love wffiom you have missed so 
terrihlv?” 

” My dear Daisy,” he said, ” is a man accountable for what he 
says in his sleep— for his dreams?” 

Were you dreaming?” asked earnest Daisy. 

” 1 suppose 1 must have been,” he replied, with an uneasy laugh. 

” I’hen, Caro, 1 would rather be the one you love in your dreams 
than the one you love in your waking hours. It seems to me the 
dream-love has the best of it.” 


BETWEEN TWO LOVES. 


‘142 

Wlien Sir Clinton examined into the cause of the noise, it "^as dis- 
covered to be nothing more than the bursting ot a bottle of cham- 
pagne; but the incident did not pass from Daisy’s mind. He had a 
lofe, or he could not dream of her; that it -was not herself, thediffer- 
ence in his voice when he spoke of his love and then to Daisy was 
quite sufficient to show her, even if nothing else did. Then, if he 
had another love, why had he married her? 

She was more puzzled than ever. Another time Sir Clinton had 
been unwell for some days; he had a kind of low fever, caught 
tlirough the heat and the enervating weather. He refused to call in 
a doctor, declaring that he could cure himself. The fever made him 
low and desponding, at times a little disposed to ramble in his 
speech. There was nothing to cause alarm, or even to confine him 
to his room, and Daisy put aside all her doubts and her fears to de- 
vote herself to him. She read to him one morning from the book 
of Irish ballads he liked so much; she was called away, and left it 
in his hands. She was absent some little lime. When she returned, 
he had lain his face on the book and had fallen into a deep sleep. 
She raised his head, and found the page wet with tears. Then she 
looked at wdiat lie had been reading. It was the same ballad that 
had touched him so much before — 

“ I am weary, I am weary, 

Waiting for the May.” 

' It was evident to her that be bad read it, wept over it, and fallen 
asleep with the tears still wet on bis face. What could it mean? 
She felt quite sure that, in some way or other, the words w^ere an 
allegory. It was not for the merrj" mouth ot May that her husband 
sighed. Then it flashed suddenly across her that, just as she was 
called by ihe name of a flow’er, “ Daisy,” other people were called 
byname “May.” 

Ihe thought flashed on her mind with a jealous par!g, that shox\ ed 
her how dearly she loved this husband who did not love her. She 
said the word over and over again, “May.” Why, it bad the 
sweetest sound! 

‘‘Ah, me! if he loved a May, why has he married me?” she 
thought. 

V/lien he was awake and looking a little better, she, sitting by 
his side, raised her eyes suddenly to his. 

‘‘ Caro,” she said, ‘‘ is the name of May a common one in Eng- 
land?” 

He was so completely taken by surprise, that he let the book he 
held in his hand fall to the ground. 

‘‘ 1 do not know— 1 am no judge of names,” he said, as he turncci 
away, and then, wi(h slow steps, quitted the room. 

‘‘ i am not jealous,” said Daisy, ‘‘ but that is confirmatiou strong 
enough for anything. He can not even endure the sound of Urn 
name.” 

h’rom that hour lier unhappiness deepened— also her determina- 
tion to know the truth. Was there some one in that far-otf England 
whom he loved — some one who had taken his heart trom her? 

‘‘ It is a great fhame,” said simple Dais3\ ‘‘ 1 am his wile, and 
he ought to love me better than any one else on earth. 1 will find 


BPn’WEEX TWO LOVES. 


143 

her out. It is worse than being a thiet to take a man’s heart and 
his love trom his own wife. 1 will find her out, and, when 1 know 
her, 1 shall say : 

This is my husband; he has married me; he has promised to 
love me and to care for me — why do you sees to take him from me?’ 

“ If she has any good in her,’*’ thought the girl, sadly, “ that will 
make her ashamed of Herself. I shall say to her; 

“ ‘ You would not steal my money, my wedding-ring; why steal 
from me that which I value a thousand times more than life itself?’ 
1 shall know what to say to her, if 1 ever find her.” 

Another time Daisy went to her husband’s study to find some 
paper he had mislaid, and on his desk, hardl}^ dried, lay a copy of 
verses. She read them — such passionate, despairing verses, that 
they brought tears to her tender eyes; and she was so deeply en- 
grossed in reading them that she forgot the object she was in search 
of. A shadow falling over the page roused her, and she looked up, 
her eyes filled with tears. 

” Caro,” she said, ” did you — have you w^ritten these verses?” 

He laughed awkwardly. 

” 1 shall begin to fancy myself a poet, Daisy, it 1 find you cry- 
ing over my rhymes,” he said. 

” But you did write them — they are j’^our own?” 

” Yes; such as they are, they are my own,” he replied. 

‘‘ Caro,” she said, very gravely, ” 1 wish, not that you would 
write such verses to me, but that 1 knew to whom they were 
written.” 

‘‘ As though poets ever wrote with reason,” he said, laughingly. 

“ This is written with reason; it is written to some one whom you 
love very much, and from whom you are parted.” 

” It is a Waste of time to contradict ladies,” he said. 

“And in your case it would also be a waste of truth,” she re 
torted. “ They are beautiful verses — sad, passionate, sweet verses. 
1 shall never forget them; but 1 wish that 1 had never seen them, 
Caro. ’ ' 

She walked away as she spoke, and Sir Clinton looked after hei. 
He was positively growing interested in her, this sweet, petulant, 
impulsive. Daisy, who said wdiat she thought, and whose thoughts 
were strangely true. Her character began to interest him. He had 
only thought of her as a simple, loving girl, tender and pure of 
heart, earnest of purpose: but she was growing positively piquant. 
She loved him, and she was jealous of him; yet, knowing nothing 
of his history, it was only of a shadow that she was jealous. 

“ If 1 had known her first — if 1 had never seen May,” he thought 
to liimself, “ 1 should have loved Daisy.” 

And from that time, although he had no idea of loving hei, from 
that hour Sir Clinton Adair felt a great respect for his wife. Daisy 
had quite recovered from her illness now; she had never been so 
well or so beautiful, lie heard her singing all day long to the boy, 
ho heard her laugh and talk to him as ihough he could understand, 
and he began to perceive that when he entered the room wheie 
mother and child were, the sweet song and laughter were hushed, 
the playful young mother became diguifiec. He noticed, too, that 
after a time Daisy ceased to enumerate baby’s charms and wonders 


144 BETWEEN TWO LOVES. 

to him. Once be stole in gently while she was dressing the little 
one. 

“ No one writes verses to us, do they, my darling?” she was say- 
intr; ‘‘ no one writes sad, sweet, loving words to us.” 

And he stole away again when he saw that tears fell from her 
eyes on baby’s unconscious lace. 


CHAPTER XXXVlll. 

A COOL FAREWELL. 

The fever of unrest was on him. Daisy was well now, the child 
thriving — everything at rest, and the old fever had returned to him. 
There could be no more tranquillity — the old, haunting, passionate 
love, the longing to look on the face of his love, was all back again. 
He wandered to and fro like a gliost. Ihere were times when he 
raised his face drearily lo the summer heavens, asking why this 
curse of a passionate love had fallen on him?— why his life, more 
than that of other men, should be haunted by this fierce, mad love? 
He was like a ship without a helm; he seemed to have lost the art 
of governing himself; the distinction between right and wrong had, 
in some measure, faded from his mind; he was growing careless of 
honor, and loyalty, and good faith; he followed one phantom— it 
w'as the weird one of his love. 'U'hen ladies, forgetting the law of 
honesty, steal, society is kind enough to call their sin by the name 
of kleptomania; when a man, in ungovernable rage, murders an- 
other, insanity comes to the rescue; for all sin excuses are found 
and fine words chosen. If there could be any excuse for Sir Clinton 
Adair, it was that his passionate love had driven him mad — he was 
not himself. He had loved her so deeply, so madly, his disappoint- 
ment had been so great, he had suffered so much, it was no wonder 
that the delicate balance of brain and reason was disturbed. It, 
before Heaven or man, there was any excuse for nis sin, it lay in 
the fact that his love and his sorrow had dazed him. Strongly as 
the fit of mania returns to the unhappy lunatic, strongly as the ex- 
cess of delirium returns to the fever patient, the fever of his love 
returned to him. He made some little stand against it; he tried to 
think of the words duty and honor; he tried to think of wife and 
child; but they were faint efforts, that fell dead— he must see her 
again. 

'He said no more than that to himself. He never imagined what 
he was lo say to her, how he was to greet her, w^hat excuse he was 
t» make tor his absence, what explanation of his conduct; only to 
see her, lo look on the face that made his heaven on earth, then die, 
if it should be sol 

” Was it ever given to man to love as 1 love her?” he thought, 
and he remembered the beautiful story ot Jacob and Rebecca— ho\v 
he loved her, how he worked for her, so that the long years seemed 
but as one day. He would have worked so for Lady May. He bit 
his lips and clinched his hands as he remembered that he himself 
had placed a barrier between himself and his fair young love. Still, 
he must see her. His wife’s sweet, sad face, her tender voice, his 


BETWEEN- TWO LOVES. 145 

child’s infant loveliness, the good impulses of his own heart— all 
were as nothing to him; he must see her! 

“ When 1 was a boy,” he thousht to himself, ” 1 wondered at 
the love stories of old. 1 could not imagine that a woman’s fair 
face had led to a thirty years’ war— 1 could not understand the wail- 
ing of (Enone for her lost Paris; but now 1 understand— 1 would 
wage war for twice thirty years if 1 could win my Helen in the end, ” 

He must see her! He closed his eyes to rest, and, as of old, she 
was there before him; he opened them, only to have her resem- 
blance in everything he saw. He had reached that state when noth- 
ing but the sight of her voice would quiet and soothe him. lie 
must go! Even Daisy, whose heart was filled with the anguish of 
slighted love and the fire of jealousy— even she, the unloved, neg- 
lected wife, pitied him. He wandered like a ghost to and fro; his 
handsome face had grown haggard and pale; he could not eat, 
sleep, or rest; his eyes had a sad, far-off look; his voice had lost its 
ring. The day came when Daisy herself noticed how ill he wtis, and 
spoke to him about it. 

” You are right,” he said; ‘‘ the place does not suit me, Daisy; it 
is too warm, too enervating — the cold of tlie English air suits me 
better. 1 think 1 shall go to England, and make arrangements for 
3"our coming.” 

” The air of Leville suits the little one,” she said; ” he is not very 
strong, and the doctor said the other day it would be as well if we 
could keep him in the south of France for a time at least.” 

Sir Clinton looked up with an air of relief. 

” You had better remain here,” he said, ” for another year or so; 
you will not be lonely with your mother and the boy.” 

Her heart beat with a sudden, fierce pang of jealousy. He wanted 
to be away from her; he wanted to go back to England without her-, 
he cared nothing for her child and herself. She controlled lierse f 
by a great eftort. 

” Y^ou would like to go back to England, then,” she said, ‘‘ with- 
out me?” 

” For a time,” he replied, “ a short time. It Leville suits the boy, 
there is no need to take him away from it.” 

” And you?” she said; ” shall jmu be able to do without me?” 

He looked up absently, not quite understanding what she meant. 

‘‘Shall you not miss me, Caro, and want rne with you?” she 
asked. 

“ Oh, yes, of course,” he replied, with the most careless indiffer- 
ence; ‘‘ but that will not matter, you know.” 

” Certainly not,” promptly replied Daisy, in a voice of bitter 
pain. Both pain and bitterness passed unnoticed by him. 

‘‘ 1 shall start soon,” he said. Now that tne ice was broken, he 
was all impatience to be gone. “ And, Daisy, 1 will take a courier 
home with me to bring your mother back.” 

” 1 thank you,” she replied. “ And, of course, you have no idea 
when you shall return?” 

‘‘ No, not the least; but it your moiher is here, you will find the 
time pass very pleasantly. You must be sure to send to me in Eng- 
land for anything you want.” 

*‘ I shall want nothing,” replied Daisy stiffly. 


14G 


BETWEEN TWO LOVES. 


“ You will send your letters to the same address JVlr Clifton, 
care of Messrs. Cooper, Tliavies Inn.’ ” 

Daisy looked up in his lace. 

“ 1 thought,” she saiil ” that even the poorest people in England 
had homes of their own ” 

‘‘ So they have,” he replied, unguardedly. 

‘‘Then where is yours? Why must 1 not write there?— why 
must 1 send to the care of some one else?” 

‘‘Why, Daisy,” he cried, amused at her vehemence, ‘‘you are 
growing quite curious;” 

‘‘ Do you call it curiosity when a wife asks where her husband’s 
home is?” 

He looked up impatiently. 

‘‘1 do not know what has come to you,” he said, and he had 
never spoken so harshly to her before. ‘‘ i do not know you, Dais}’^; 
you are not like yourself; you tease me; 3’ou ask questions; you 
seem dissatisfied. ” 

She looked up at him wil h a pale, scared face. 

‘‘ Are you really angry with me, Caro?” she asked. 

‘‘ 1 do not like to be teased, ' he said, “lam not patient, Daisy.” 

‘‘ And 1 have been too patient,” she replied. 

Sir Clinton frowned angrily and left the room. 

Daisy sought refuge in a burst of tears. 

” 1 will not bear it,” she said. ‘‘ 1 am not a child, and 1 will not 
be treated like one. i will know more of his affairs than 1 have 
overdone. 1 wdll know why he goes, to England and leaves me 
here.” 

A project suddenly presented itself to her, and afterward took 
deep root in her mind. She, his wife, w^as amply justified in want- 
ing to know more of him; it was not, she said to herself, mere 
curiosity; it was not a woman’s idle desire to know— it was real, 
deep, true interest in him, real love for him, that prompted her. She 
would let him go to England without another word; and then, 
when her mother came, so that she could leave her boy in safety, 
she w'ould go after him. 

There was only one objection to her plan. Where in England 
M’^ould she find him? He had, apparently, no home; but she could 
hear of him at Messrs. Cooper’s. She did not know much of life; 
she had seen little of the world, and her plan appeared to her not 
only feasible, but easy. She would go to London; the journey need 
not frighten her, it was straightforward; she would go to the ad- 
dress; she remembered it well — Messrs. Cooper, Thavieslnn; then 
she had nothing to do but ask for Mr. Clifton. If there was any 
mystery, anything underhand in his life, he would surely tell her 
then, when he found that she had followed him to England for the 
sake of knowing it. 

So Daisy laid her plans, resolute, determined, not for her own 
salve, but tor her boy’s. He might have neglected her, he must not 
neglect the loveliest child that ever saw light. She made up her 
mind to this plan of action, and nothing would alter it. 

Perhaps Sir Clinton felt some little wonder that Daisy said no 
more against his going. This gentle yet impulsive wife of his had 
some interest for him, but it was more as a student of character 


IlETWEEX TWO LOYEg. 


147 


than anything else. She piqued him. He had looked upon her as 
having fine characteristics— a fair, blank page on which he could in- 
scribe what colors he would, but he found" the fair page not quite, 
so blank as he had expected; she had improved so wonderfully. 
She had thoughts and aspirations of her own now; she had ideas 
that were original and not to be despised. He could not ignore 
Daisy any longer; she had an individuality of her own, and he 
began to perceive it. 

Still, he wondered why she made no comments on his journey — 
why she did not ask him how long he would be absent; but no, 
Daisy made no sign. She busied herself in prenaring his packages; 
she helped him, but the smile that had been wont to come so sweet- 
ly at his words was absent. Daisy was grave and earnest. 

“ Shall you think of the baby while you are away?” she asked 
liini one day, and he saw a wistful expression on her face. 

” Most assuredly I shall, Daisy.” 

” 1 thought, if you liked, if you cared about it, 1 would take him 
to the town and have his portrait taken for you.” 

Sir Clinton laughed. 

‘‘ Why, Daisy, all babies look alike in pictures. 1 do not sup- 
pose that, if 1 saw half a dozen baby portraits, 1 should know which 
was my son.” 

“ Probanly not,” said Daisy, with a toss of her pretty head; 
“ but 1 should know him, because 1 love him.” 

” So do 1; you will see when he is a little older, Daisy. Men can 
not care so much for these very little children; when he can walk 
and talk, that will be the time for me to love him.” 

” If you go often to Enirlaud,” retorted Daisy, “ and your visits 
last each time as long as they have done before, he will be a young 
man before you see him.” 

“ \Yhy, Daisy, you are satirical,” said Sir Clinton. 

‘‘And that,” replied Daisy, ‘‘is a thousand limes better than 
being semimental. How long will it be before my mother reaches 
Leville, Caro?” 

1 shall go first to P’erndale,” he replied, ” before 1 go to Lon- 
don or anywhere else, and, as soon as 1 can persuade her to go, 1 
will see that she starts.” 

‘‘ You will be kind to her?” said Daisy. ‘‘ She has never 
traveled before; she will be frightened and nervous.” 

” Of course 1 shall be kind to her, Daisy; what do you take me 
for?” he said, halt indignantly; and then the subject w^as not men- 
tioned between them again. 

He saw a dilTerence in her when he left home. The time before 
she had stood al the gate watching him with loving, lingering eyes, 
and, when he had gone, had fallen lifeless to the ground; this time 
the pretty face was flushed with indignation— the fire, half of anger, 
hall of jealousy, was in her eyes. 

” Good-by,” she said, coldly, when Sir Clinton was going. 

” Daisy,” he said, wnmderingly, *‘ that is a cool farewell, unlike 
you.” 

*■ 1 can not make myself cool and warm to order,” retorted Daisy; 
‘‘ 1 do my best.” 

But though she spoke so coldly to him, though she bade him fare- 


BETWEEJ^- TWO LOVES. 


148 

well with cokl words and averted eyes, she Iiad never loved him 
with so passionate a love as now. 

And Sir Clinton, as he traveled homeward, forgot all about those 
he had left behind, and thought only of the one he was going to see. 


CHAPTER XXXIX. 

READY TO START. 

Sir Clinton had kept his word. Immediately on his arrival in 
England he had gone to Ferndaie and had seen Mrs. Erne. He 
told her of Daisy’s wish that she should go to her. At first she had 
refused. She v»as too old for travel— too old for change; she should 
not know what to do in a strange country, foreigh ways would kill 
her, and she would not hear a word of it; but when Sir Clinton told 
her about the beauty of the little grandchild, and artfully placed 
before her the tact that he believed Daisy wanted advice in bringing 
up the child, that sort of instinct which never quite dies in woman 
woke up, and she declared herself in readiness to set out. 

She vras slightly alarmed at the sight of the French courier, with 
his long beard and mustache, whose ideas of the English language 
were of the most extraordinary description. Poor Mrs. Erne trembled 
at him, but his respect for her was so great, his salutations so pro- 
found, his desire to please her so very evident, that she said “ he 
meant well, she was sure,” and finally she consented to intrust her 
precious person to his care. It was a relief to Sir Clinton when 
she went; he fancied Daisy would be quite happy now, and in that 
he showed a man’s usual discrimination and correct judgment. 
When he had seen Mrs. Erne safely off, Sir Clinton went to London, 
and there the desire of his heart was gratified. The London season 
had hardly begun, but a brilliant one was expected, and, from the 
inquiries made at Clifte House, he heard that Miss Lockwood and 
Lady May were expected in a fe\^ days’ time. 

Sir Clinton took up his abode at Ferndaie House, and announced 
his determination of remaining for three months, at least. 

People said to each other, smilingly, that there would be a wed- 
ding long before that time, for he must have returned to marry 
Lad}^ May Trevlyn. 

While he went through his old torture again and again, Daisy 
was making up her mind to a grand “coup.” Time had done 
wonders for her, not only in maturing her beauty, but in forming 
her mind. She had been a simple, untutored girl at the time of her 
marriage, with only one idea, which was how she could best show 
her love tor her husband; now she was a woman with a purpose. 
Time and sorrow Had given her a dignity and matured her as years 
alone could never have done. 

She had thought and brooded long weeks and months over the 
strangeness of her husband’s conduct, until she had lost all interest 
in everything else; she had graver and more serious thoughts than 
such as generally fill the minds of jmung girls. 

” They had each a life to live, and it they intended to strive for 
^leaven,” she said to herself, ” it must be a good life— it should be 


HETWETilN- TWO LOYES. 


149 

iilled with good and useful deeds; taken even at the worst, it was 
never intended that life should be spent shut up in the solitude of 
these hills, simply hidden out ot the way, seeing no one, knowing 
no one — eating, drinkinir, sleeping, w’alking, living in isolated lux- 
ury, without one share in the great heart ot the world, its contlicts, 
its dangers, its trials, its heroisms. Lite like that was not far re- 
moved tiom vegetation. God hiid never created them for this.” 

What made the difference between their married life and the life 
of others? Even Jules Sernay, the courier, had hesitated a little 
before trusting himself in ” perfidious Albion.” 

‘‘His wife,” he said, ‘‘did not care about his going such long 
distances.” Why, her husband had not cared in the least about the 
distance; he had voluntarily left her — had voluntarily absented him- 
self from her. Even old Philippa, the owner of the vineyard that 
half covered one ot the hills, had refused to eo to Spain on very 
profitable business — he would not leave his wife. Besides, in all 
the books she read, in the poems that she knew by heart, in the 
stories that she knew were true, there was no love so beautiful, so 
dignified, so tender, as the love between husband and wdfe. There 
must be something that was wanting in her life— something that 
made it different to all others. It was not want of love on her part; 
it must be her husband’s want ot love for her. Between them there 
had been no grace! ul, kindly familiarity; she had never loved— at 
least, had never liked— to throw her arms round her husband’s neck 
and kiss his face; she never jested or laughed with him; instead of 
that, she had watched him through dreary hours of brooding pain, 
when his haggard face and darkened eyes showed her that his 
tbotighls were all sad ones. 

AVhat made it so? Why did he not love her? She was not vain, 
this simple Daisy, but she felt sure that since her marriage she had 
wonderfully improved; her mirror showed her a beautiful face, 
fresh and fair— a charming English face; and she quite calmly, 
without the least vanity, to^k stock, as it were, of he’’ own charms 
and accomplishments. They were not great— nothing very wonder- 
ful; but, on the other hand, she was more accomplished than half 
the women of the day. 

Then, said Daisy to herself, she would solve the mystery. She 
had thought, perhaps, the birth of the little boy would fill his heart 
with love, and turn it to her; it had not done so. He was kind to the 
Ijaby— evinced some little interest in it ; but love it— as, for instance, 
Mr. De Grey would have loved a child of his own— nothing of the 
kind. So, after long, deep thoughi, after much consideration, Daisy 
resolved upon taking the matter in her own hands, and solving the 
mystery. If she found that he loved some one else, what should she 
do? Her sweet face flushed; her little white hands clinched them- 
selves tightly together; her heart beat with hot, angry pain. What 
should she do? 

‘‘ Ah, me! how hopeless and how helpless 1 am, alter all! What 
could 1 do?” 

But, after long deliberation, Daisy almost banished that idea. If 
he had really loved any one else, he would not have married her; 
there was neither sense nor reason in supposing such a thing. 

No; the mystery did not lie in his love for another, but in some 


150 


BETWEEN TWO LOYES. 


mj^stery of life; perhaps, if she coiihl solve that and help him, he 
would love her with all his heart — so she would try. She said no 
word to any one of her plans, but she laid them carefully. Sliehad 
a large sum of money by her, and, by sending to her husband she 
could have more — she would have plenty to keep her for a whole 
year in London, if it were needful; and, when her mother came to 
take care of the boy, she would certainly go. It was hard to leave 
the child, but then it was for his sake. 

Mrs. Erne, under the charge of the bearded courier, arrived at 
last. To hear her account of the journey was simply to listen to a 
relation of marvels — no one had ever gone tnrough such dangers and 
such hair-breadth escapes. It was not until Mrs. Erne had exhaust- 
ed all these that she looked round her to see how the land lay, ac- 
cording to her own expression, with her daughter. She was a sim- 
ple, kimily woman, who knew very little of the world, or what is 
commonly called life; but she knew this much, at least, that when 
a man loves his wife, he does not, of his own free will, leave her. 

“ AVhat takes your husband to England without you, child?” she 
never wearied of asking Daisy; and the unloved wife had no reply 
to make, except that it was business. But when the mother saw- 
how changed her child was, how all the light, bright spirit had left 
her — that she had changed from a tender, loving girl to an earnest, 
high-souled woman — she marveled what had wrought the difference. 

” Are you happy with your husband, Daisy?” she would ask. 

Yes, she was happy — she made no complairt; but the mother’s 
quick eyes saw it all. If she were happy, as she said, why did she 
spend hoiirs in weary thought? Why was she always waking with 
the morning dawn, yet sitting up until midnight? Why did she 
never laugii, but when the child wanted amusement? Why was 
she more often seen with tears in her eyes than with smiles on her 
lips? Where was the pretty, girlish talk about her husband, such as 
young wives always delight in? Where were her lamentations over 
his absence — her longing for his return? 

'* There is something not natural about It,” said Mrs. Erne. ” 1 
am afraid my child is not happy.” 

There came a day when Daisy sought her mother's presence, and 
in some vague fashion made known to her her plans. Mrs. Erne 
listened in -wonder. 

” Let me quite understand, Daisy. You want me to take charge 
of the baby, the house, and Bedina, while you go to England — is it 
so?’' 

” Yes, mother, that is it,” replied Daisy. 

” And again,” said Mrs. Erne, ” if 1 understand rightly, you do 
not want your husband to know anything about your journey?” 

“No; 1 want to take it quite unknown to him,” said Daisy — 

” unknown to any one except you, mother.” 

‘‘ flow shall you do over your letters?” she asked; “your hus- 
band seems to write pretty often to you.” 

”1 have thought all that over, mother. My husband’s letters 
never contain anything that require answering— they might be read 
by all the world, as well as by me. 1 never have anything to say to 
him of particular import. 1 shall leave twelve letters behind me, 
dated in advance; one to be posted each month, so that he will never 


BETWEEN TWO LOVES. 


151 


know that 1 am not here. Then, as soon as 1 have decided upon an 
address in London, 1 shall send it to you. You can forward all my 
husband’s letters, and I can answer anything that requires answer- 
ing, send the letters to you, and you can send them on to him. ” 

“ That might do,” said Mrs. Erne; ‘‘ but suppose he returns 
while you are away?” 

” He will not,” said Daisy; “ and if he does, he will not be very 
much surprised.” 

” Daisy, my own!” said the simple woman, ” are you quite sure 
that you are doing nothing wrong?” 

” 1 am quite sure,” was the grave reply. ” I am doing what is 
right and needful.” 

” Do tell me,” said her mother, anxiously, “ is there anything 
wrong about your husband?” 

‘‘ No,” replied Daisy; ” be quite easy, mother; the errand 1 am 
going on will make us all happier.” 

Mrs. Erne had no resource but to believe it. And Daisy began 
her preparations for departure. In the intensity of her love and 
anxiety over her husband, she had not taken sufficiently into ac- 
count the grief that it would cause her to part from her child. 
When the day came that she was ready to start, and she took the 
little one in her arms, it seemed to her that her heart would break. 

” Mother,” she said, simply, ‘‘ did it hurt you as much to part 
with me?” 

Mrs. Erne smiled sadly. 

” There is this difference, Daisy,” shesaid, your heart had gone 
from me— your husband had all of it.” 

‘‘And, some day,” thought Daisy, ‘‘this boy’s heart will go 
from me. Ah, well, it is the way of the world, mother.” 

” Yes,” she replied, sadly, ‘‘it is the way of the world. No 
matter how soft and how warm a bird makes its nest, Daisy, 
the young ones will fly from it; but 5 mu need have no fear over 
the boy; I will take as much care of him as 1 did of you.” 

‘‘Bedina can speak enough English for jmu to understund her, 
mother,” said Daisy, anxious to make all things smooth. 

Mrs. Erne’s face was expressive of the highest disdain, but she 
replied, quite calmly: 

‘‘ 1 shall be able to get what 1 want for myself, my dear; that 
person, Bedina, as you cull her, is, 1 must freely own, rather too 
much for me.” 


CHAPTER XL. 

A HOUSEKEEPER WANTED. 

Daisy had a safe journey. She had been very wise in one thing; 
she had not incumbered herself with luggage. She had plenty of 
money, and it seemed to her that it would be easier to purchase what 
she requircil — that is, if she did require anything — than to incumber 
herself with boxes. She had but a faint idea of what end or aim 
she proposed to herself in going to England, except that she wished 
to find her husband, and find out what the mystery of his life was. 

Daisy was a woman of purx)ose; she had brooded so long oveyher 


162 


BETWEEI?' TWO LOVES. 


thoughts that she seemed to herself to be all thought. The outer 
world was generally quite forgotten. She had no idea what a fair 
and attractive picture she made, as she sat with a far-o5 gaze in her 
beautiful eyes, as indifterent to all outward events and matters as 
though she had no share in them. She went where she was told 
quite mechanically; she asked few questions, spoke few words. She 
looked almost like a woman whose heart and soul had traveled be- 
foie her, and whose body was trying to overtake them. She reached 
London at night, and slept at the hotel nearest the station— slept 
well and soundly, for Daisy, as a rule, had almost perfect health; 
one part of her anxiety was over, she had reached London safely, and 
it seemed to her that the one- half of her errand was accomplished. 

Then, when morning came, Daisy woke strong and resolute, ready 
to begin her task at once. She took her breakfast, then dressed her- 
self plainly in black, hiding the fair freshness of her face with a 
veil, and started for the Messrs. Cooper. 

Daisy had never known much of life in London. She was quite 
ignorant; and, in common with many country people, she imagined 
Thavies Inn to be a large hotel; it must be a respectable one, she 
thought, if lawyers like the JVJessrs. Cooper lived there. Daisy 
w'alkedfrom the hotel to the nearest cab-stand, and looked with awe 
at the dignified gentleman who answered to the name of Cabby. 

“ Where to, miss?” asked that mighty official, touching his hat. 

Daisy raised her sweet, sad, and wet eyes to his face. 

” Do you know a hotel called Thavies Inn?” she asked. 

A broad grin was the first reply, then a chuckle; after that the 
man asked if he might make bold enough to inquire whom she 
wanted there; and Daisy told him. Then be entered into an ex- 
planation, and told hey Thavies Inn was not a hotel, but a block of 
buildings chiefly used by professional men. 

” It is strange,” said Daisy, ” that it should be called an inn!” 

It would have been stranger still if, after that, Daisy had not been 
a victim. Ttie caDman evidently thought such prey must have been 
sent for a lawful purpose, and he smiled benignly as he asked ex- 
actly five times the fare. Perhaps his conscience— always provided 
that cabmen have a conscience- w\as touched when Daisy unhesi- 
tatingly placed the fare in his hands and thanked him for his kind- 
ness. He even volunteered then to find out at what number ]\lessrs. 
Cov)per were to be found. He came back in a few minutes. 

‘‘ It is all right, miss,” he said; ” you wdll find them at Kos. 3 
and 4.” He looked after the tall, slender figure. ‘‘ 1 have not seen 
a prettier girl than that for many long days,” he mused as he drove 
away. 

Nos. 3 and 4 was a tall, dark-looking house. Daisy, with her 
memory of the far-off vine-covered hills, wondered how any one 
could live there. The noise bewildered her— the gloom distracted 
her— the windows seemed all alike, with wire blinds, each one bear- 
ing a name. She took courage at last, and, looking at the door-post, 
saw the name of Messrs. Cooper, No. 3. Then she was at the right 
place, after all. 

Then, for the first time, it occurred to Daisy, what was she to say 
when she stood in the presence of Messrs. Cooper? What could 
she say? She hh4 hardly taken that awkward preliminary into 


BETWEEN TWO LOVES. 


153 


consideratioD. She must ask for Mr. Clifton’s address, of course. 
She must say that, wishing to see him, a ad knowing they were lii.s 
solicitors, she had inquired. Daisy took heart. But it seemed to 
her a strange place; tlie floor was covered with a cocoaiiut matting; 
she saw steep staircases, and people seemed to pass up and down 
incessantly. At length she asked a kindly-looking clderl}’- man to 
show her Messrs. Cooper’s rooms. 

“ They have the whole of the first floor,” he replied; “ the first 
and second rooms are occupied by their clerks; the gentlemen of 
the firm have the inner room.” 

Daisy knocked, and a sing-song voice bade her enter. 

‘‘ I want to see Mr. Cooper,” said Daisy, gently. 

“ Which of them? Mr. Paul is here— Mr. John seldom comes.” 

‘‘ Mr. Paul will do,” said Daisy, so timidly that the clerk said to 
himself at once that she was certainly not a profitable client— they 
used quite another tone of voice; probably some one begging for 
charitable purposes; he should be in sore disgrace if she were ad- 
mitted. 

” 1 beg your pardon, miss,” he said, ” but Mr. Cooper himself is 
engaged. Can 1 take the message?” 

Daisy thought deeply for a minute. What could it matter? — she 
had no desire to see Mr. Paul Cooper; she only wanted her hus- 
band’s address —the clerk was quite as likely to have it. 

‘‘ You can do quite as well,” she said; ” 1 want to know Mr. 
Clifton’s address.” 

‘‘Mr. Clifton?” repeated the clerk; ‘‘1 do not remember the 
name. Is he employed here, or is he—” 

Daisy interrupted him. 

No,” she replied; ‘‘ Messrs. Cooper are his solicitors.” 

‘‘ Tbey are solicitors for a great many people,” replied the clerk, 
gravely; ” but 1 doubt if they know the address of one halt their 
clients.” 

” But this is difierent,” said Daisy, eagerly; ” Mr. Clifton is not 
a client in that sense of the word— at least 1 think not; 1 have never 
heard him speak of business, but Messrs. Cooper manage all his 
affairs — so he told me.” 

‘‘Our firm are agents for many old courtly families,” said the 
clerk; ‘‘ they are solicitors of long standing, but 1 really do not re- 
member that name.” 

‘‘ 1 am sure that 1 am right,” said Daisy. ‘‘ 1 have the address — 
jVIessrs. Cooper, Thavies Inn. All letters are sent there.” 

The clerk looked puzzled. 

”1 have a good memory,” he said, ‘‘and really the name is 
strange to me.” 

‘‘ Will you speak to Mr. Cooper,” said Daisy; ” 1 will wait.” 

The clerk bowed, placed a chair, and retired. Daisy sat down. 
Nearly an hour passed before Daisy was able to sec iVIr. Cooper. 
Then she was shown into a small room, where an elderly gentleman 
sat beiore a large table, that Avas covered with papers. lie looked 
up in surprise as this fair, sweet-faced woman stood before him. 

He w^aited for Daisy to speak. She asked the same question: 

‘‘ Would he be pleased ^o give her Mr. Clifton’s address?” 

He referred to a ledger that lay near him. 


154 BETWEEK TWO LOTES. 

“Clifton!” he repeated, slowly. ” We have not such a name on 
our books.” 

Jhu Daisy persisted. 

“ 1 assure you,” she said, “ that you have; you have the charge 
of his affairs- he told me so, and his letters are sent here, 1 know; 1 
have sent some myself.” 

It did not occur to Mr. Cooper just at that moment that Sir Clin- 
ton Adair had received several lettei*s addressed to Mr. Clifton; even 
had he rememberedjhe fact, the astute ]aw3’^er would not have owned 
it; but he did not remember it, and stoutly denied that the name of 
Clifton was known in the offices. 

“ You must be mistaken,” he said to Daisy. 

“ Ilow can I be mistaken, when he is—” “ My own husband ” 
she was about to add, but she checked herself; better, perhaps, not 
to say that. There w’as evidently a mystery, or why did the lawyer 
not recognize the name? 

“ Clifton?” repeated Mr. Cooper; “ the name seems in some way 
familiar to me, but we certainly do no business for any one who 
bears it.” 

Suddenly it occurred to Daisy that it was just possible her hus- 
band liad assumed the name. She had no reason for thinking so, 
j’-et it must be the case. This was assuredly the office, and, if not 
known by that name, he must be b}' some othei. Why did people 
hide their names? As a rule, it was because they desired to hide 
themselves. 

Had she discovered the mystery? — had she solved it? Was this 
the cause of his brooding in silence, of Ids constant thought, of his 
isolation? "Was this the leason that he.refused to know people, and 
preferred the solitude of the hills? Had he done some wrong for 
w’hich he could be punished? Ah! Heaven forbid, if that be the 
case, that she should be the one to betray him — Heaven forbid! 
Daisy’s heart beat fast; she said to herself that she was on the brink 
of a discovery at last. This was the mysterj^ and no word of hers 
should betray him — not one single word! 

“ Will you Give me some particulars?” said Mr. Cooper; “ per- 
haps 1 may be able to help you.” 

But Daisy drew back with marked hesitation; she thought to her- 
self she had better say no more, or, unwittingly, she might betray 
him. 

“1 think,” she said, “that 1 will call again. 1 have probably 
made a mistake.” 

But the law\’^er was curious; this fresh, fair face interested him. 

“ Did 1 understand that .you had sent letters here to a Mr. Clif- 
ton?” he asked; but Daisy was on her guard— she would not be- 
tray him; only let iier once get safely out of this place, she woukl 
never enter it again. She answered quite evasivel}^: 

“ 1 may have been mistaken; 1—1 will look over my papers and 
see. ' ’ 

Suddenly she paused; for, plainly as she had ever heard anything 
in her life, she heard the voice of her husband in the next room; he 
was speaking to Mr. Brown, the head clerk. 

“ I'need not trouble IMr. Cooper,” he said; “ the fact is. 1 am 
very much annoyed. My housekeeper is leaving very suddenly, 


BETVVEE]sr TWO LOVES. 


155 


ana 1 have made all arran<?ement8 for the season ; 1 must have one 
at once. Ask Mr. Cooper to put an advertisement in all the prin- 
cipal papers, to apply here; he will cnoose more wisely for me than 
1 can choose for myself.” 

She did not hear the clerk’s reply, but her husband said: 

1 will call again this afternoon about it; just write down what 
I require.” 

Then there was silence. Her face had grown white as death; 
her pulse seemed to bound in her veins. Mr. Cooper was looking 
at her in wonder. 

” 1 beg your pardon,” she said, ” but 1 do not feel well. 1 will 
call again.” 

But she did not rise to go. What if she met him in that outer 
room? It seemed to Daisy that her heart was clutched with an iron 
hand— the breath came in hot, quick gasps Irom her lips. The 
lawyer looked at her in puzzled alarm. 

” 1 am quite sure that you are ill,” he said, hastily. 

It never occurred to him, shrewd and clever as he was, to connect 
in any way the pallor and agitation of the fair- faced woman liefore 
him with the sound of the voice heard in the next room. His eyes 
were fixed with such unwavering keenness on Daisy, she was com- 
pelled to answer him. 

” 1 am not ill; but I am not used to London; it frightens me — 
the noise, the bustle, the glare. 1 am contused.” 

Then she heard footsteps, and she knew that her husband was 
leaving the place. 

” 1 will call again,” she said, in a halt-stifled voice. ” 1 must go 
now.” 

And just as she reached the door she saw lier husband pass 
through it and disappear. 


CHAPTER XLl. 

ONE HALF OF THE MYSTEKY. 

Daisy was certain of his identity; she would have known his face 
anywhere— the handsome, high-bred face, with the beautiful eyes 
and mouth. At first it seemed to her that the shock was so great 
she must fall to the ground; then she steadied herself. After ali, 
why need she be afraid?— why be astonished at finding him there? 
It was only to be expected. She went to the civil young clerk who 
had spoken to her on her first entrance, and, trying to assume a non- 
chalant air, said: 

“Who is that gentleman — the one who has just passed out? 
You opened the door for him.” 

The clerk looked at her, evidently puzzled as to whether he ought 
to answer the question or not. 

“ 1 know him,” she continued, in a careless tone, ” but 1 can not 
recall his name.” 

The clerk was quite satisfied. 

” It is Sir Clinton Adair,” he replied. 

Again the iron hand seemed to clutch her heart and hold it still; 


BETWEEN" TWO LOVES. 


156 

Dolliin^; but her sense ot what was at stake kept her Irom betra^’ing 
herseU. She continued to repeat it in a voice even more careless. 

“ Sir Clinton Adair!” she said. ” Ah, yes; 1 had forgotten.” 

Then she passed out; it seemed to her that she must have fresh 
air, or she should die. She went out into the crowded streets. The 
throng of people, the noises of carts, drays, cabs, omnibuses, the 
cries ot the street venders, all confused her;, her heart and brain 
seemed to be on fire. She walked on a few steps, then stood quite 
still, looking round her with a bewildered air. A gentleman pass- 
ing by noticed it, and looked pityingly at the fair woman, dressed 
in deep black, who was evidently lost in the crowd. He touched 
his hat, and spoke to her. 

” Are you looking for a cab?” he asked, gravely. 

” Yes,” she replied; and he, seeing the dreamy, bewildered ex- 
pression ot her face, said to himself there was something wrong. 

He stood by her side in silence until the cab he had signaled for 
her came up. Then he held the door open while she entered. 

” Thank you,” said Daisy; ” you are very good.” 

”1 fancied you had lost your way,” he replied; ‘‘and that is 
a very serious thing do to in London. Where shall 1 tell the man to 
drive to?” 

Again he was startled at the innocent, helpless, bewildered look. 

‘‘1 am in great trouble,” said Daisy, ‘‘and 1 want to go to a 
quiet place — some place where 1 can tliink. These streets confuse 
me.” 

‘‘ Drive to the park,” said the gentleman. Then, with a low 
bow, he disappeared; but more than once that day he spoke ot the 
fair, irr aceful woman he had met in the crowded street. 

At last she was alone, with the blue sky above her, and the sweet, 
fragrant air refreshing her— alone in the ereen, undulating park, 
where the tall trees were budding into fresh life, and she had time 
to think. She saw chairs beneath the trees, and she sat down on 
one to rest. She drew a long sigh ot relief— a deep sigh, that was 
almost a moan. 

So she had found out one-half of the mystery at last— her hus- 
band was not Mr. Clifton; he was Sir Clinton A.dair. Why had he 
assumed that name? For what purpose?— to what end? 

Her thoughts went back to the place and the hour when she had 
first heard it. She remembered bending over him, and asking him 
his name; he had most certainly answered, ‘‘Mr. Clifton.” She 
could not have been mistaken, and, it she were mistaken, why aid 
he not correct her? He always called himself Clifton; she had 
known no other name since her marriage tlian Mrs. Clitton; he 
had given her that address for her letters; there was no mistake 
about it; and, after all, it was not his own name. Why had he 
assumed it? Not— oh. Heaven!— surely not to deceive her. He 
had married her ot his own free will, and they were safely, legally, 
properly married. It could not have been from any motive con- 
nected with her — why was it? 

Had he comitted any slight error or indiscretion that caused him 
to hide himself? She could no longer think that. He was not 
hiding: he went through the London streets; he was making 
kirungoments tor living in London lor three months; he was evb 


liETWEEiq- TWO LOVES. 


157 


dently well known in the lawyer’s ofliee; there was no hiding, no 
secrecy there. She said to herself that the same cause which led 
him to pass by a name that was not his, was the mystery that per- 
vaded his whole life. She must find it out; then, when she knew 
what it was, she would know how to act. Sir Clinton Adair! 
Then Daisy gave a little start and a cry. If he were indeea Sir 
Clinton, she was Lady Adair, and the little child in the far-off home 
— what was he? Wliy had he kept his rank and title a secret from 
her? Was he ashamed of her? Did he consider her unworthy to 
share them? No: for if that had been the case, he would not, in the 
first instance, have married her. 

She could not solve the mystery. The longer she thought of it, 
the more deeply it puzzled her; but she was more determined than 
ever to find it out. How? That became the grand question. She 
must decide upon some method. Already her courage and perse- 
verance had led her to make this discovery. She knew some of his 
secret; she would discover the rest. 

“ There never was a will yet,"’ said Daisy, “ without a w^ay. 1 
have the will, 1 must make the way.” 

If she could, by some means or. other, get to know where ho 
lived. Then it occurred to her that would be easy enough ; she had 
but to look in a London directory to find out that. She remembered 
well hearing her husband speak of it, and say that every large town 
should have its directory. She had never thought then that the 
directory would come to her aid. She would try it. It seemed to 
tier that if she could see the outside of the house, she should gather 
something even from that. 

Daisy lost no time; she walked from the green park, where the 
air, and the trees, and the grass had refreshed her; she did not stop 
until she came to a large store — a stationer’s; she went in, and, 
after making some trifling purchases, she asked to look at the di- 
rectory. She was some time in finding it, but she saw it at last — 
Sir Clinton Adair, Lifdale House. 

Daisy looked at the store keeper who had been serving her. He 
seemed good-tempered and amiable, she thought, and she inquired 
of him Tf he knew where Lifdale House was. 

” Yes,” he knew; ‘‘ it was one of the large mansions facing Hyde 
Park to the west,” and he gave her ample directions how to reach 
there. Half an hour afterward Daisy was standing opposite to that 
stately and magnificent mansion. They little dreamed, those who 
passed by and glanced casually at the tall figure so plainly dressed 
in black, that there was the mistress of that "superb abode— the un- 
loved wife looking for the first time on her husband’s home. Could 
it be his, that grand mansion? She thought of the little cottage at 
Ferndale; she "thought of the pretty little villa amone: the hills of 
sunny France. What were they compared to this? How could the 
lord of this stately abode ever have contented himself there? 

Liould it be? Should she wake up and find herself dreaming, the 
babe in the cot by her side, the vine-leaves climbing the windows, 
the song of bright-plumaged birds in her ears? Was all this mys- 
tery \Nhich oppressed her and demented her a wild fancy? 

She stood opposite the house, her tall fiirure draped in a black 
dress, her fair face hidden by her veil. Ah, it was no fancy, no 


BETWEEN TWO LOVES. 


158 

dream! She saw a carriage drive rapidly up to the door, and her 
husband, alighting from it, enter the house. 

Then it was his— this sumptuous carriage, these prancing steeds, 
the servants in livery; all this was his — he who had been content 
to live in a little villa, with two servants! 

“ Either,’' said Daisy, “ he loved me very much to do that tor 
my sake, or he does not love me at all. 'Which is it. Sir Clinton 
Adair? The mystery is one of two things,” she said; ” either he is 
ashamed ot me, and does not intend to bring me here — will not allow 
his triends to know^ anything about me; it is either that, or he cares 
for some one else. ” 

The mystery had been bi ought down to one ot these two solvings. 
'Which was the truth? 

” I wish,” said Daisy, ” that 1 had the ring ot Eortunatus, or 
the power ot the invisible genie; then 1 would ^o into his house, 
and watch him until 1 knew all about it ” 

Why not go into his house in some character or other unknown 
to him — go in disguise? She had read of such things in novels; she 
had known them to be true —why not imitate them? 

She became absorbed in this idea. There was only one wmy in 
which she could get into the house — that would be disguised as a 
servant. But how to manage it she had no idea. 

Suddenly it occurred to her that her husband had said he wmnled 
a housekeeper, and Mr. Cooper w'as to attend to it tor him. She could 
not quite see her way, but here was an opening at least. She re- 
turned to the hotel, her mind tilled with this project ; she could 
neither eat nor sleep for thinking of it. 

The next morning she saw the advertisement: 

Wanted — A Housekeeper, to take charge ot a nobleman’s house 
in tow'n. First-class references required. Apply between the hours 
ot 12 and 2, to Messrs. Cooper, 3 and 4 Thavies Inn. 

” What is it?” cried Daisy, excitedly. She looked at the wmrds 
with some curiosity, as though they could tell her the mystery lying 
beneath them. ” Wanted a housekeeper! Sir Clinton Adair, there 
is no word here of the wdteyou left in France, thinking she would 
be content to remain there. 

” Between the hours ot twelve and two,” she thought. ” I will 
,20 and watch; 1 will get to know who succeeds. Something wdll 
come of it, alter all, 1 teel quite sure.” 

She dressed herself very plainly; she hid all the wealth of rippling 
brown hair beneath the somewhat old-fashioned bonnet that she had 
purshased tor the occasion. She looked at herself with some satis- 
faction. 

” 1 do not believe,” she thought, “ that, even if he met me in the 
street, he would know me.” 

It was easy this time to find her way to Thavies Inn. The clock 
was just strking twelve. She saw several respectable elderly women 
waiting; she looked at them with great curiosity. 

“So,” she said to herself, “alter all, it will be one of these 
women who will keep my husband’s house.” 

They were admitted into the o5ice, and, after a short interval, 


BETWEEN" TWO LOVES. 150 

one returned looking very disconsolate — evidently she bad no 
chance; then came two more, talking together eagerly. 

“ She was the Dukeot Trelawn’s houseke6{»^r,*’ Daisy heard one 
say to the other; “ I knew she would get it when I saw her there.” 

” Yes,” w’as the mournful reply; “ there was no chance against 
such recommendation^ as hers.” 

Two more followed, and it seemed to Daisy that she knew the 
successful one from the contented expression of her face. Bho was 
also talking to her companion, andT^aisy, listening, heard her say 

” I am to go on Thursday; come and see 'me before then.” 

Mechanically, Daisy followed her; this woman, who was to keep 
her husband’s house, interested her greatly. She saw her stop an 
omnibus, and say to the conductor, “ Put me down at Meadow 
Lane, Holloway.” Without a moment’s hesitation Daisy entered 
the same omnibus. 


CHAPTER XLII. 
daisy’s stratagem. 

The woman who had so powerfull}” excited Daisy’s curiosity did 
not appear to notice her; during the greater part of the journey she 
occupied herself in studying a torn book of accounts; the crowded 
streets disappeared, and stunted trees, witli ill-favored flowers, gave 
some sign of a better air. flolloway was reached, and Daisy looked 
out for Meadow Lane. The bell rang; the omnibus stopped. 

‘‘ Meadow Lane,” said the conductor; and the housekeeper-elect 
got out. 

Daisy followed her. She walked down the lane until she reached 
a row of pretty cottages, with little gardens in front. The woman 
entered the third of these, and Daisy, to her intense delight, saw 
‘ Apartments to let ” in the window. 

“How my difliculties vanish,” she said to herself. “1 can go 
into the house at once, on the plea of engaging rooms; in fact, 1 
will engage them.” 

But a sudden idea occurred to Daisy. What if, in the after time. 
Sir Clinton brought her home as his wife? It would never do for 
people to recognize her. She must disguise herself. 

Awa}^ went Daisy, without rest, or time, or thought, only anx- 
ious to5lo everything as quickly as possible. She bought a black 
wig; she bought a white cap and black veil, through which her face 
could not be seen. With these she returned to her hotel. She 
dressed herself in her room. Brushing back the golden brown rip- 
ples, she put on the black coitfiire. It so completely changed her 
appearance that slie did not recognize herself. She surmounted that 
with a cap that she was assured was of the style worn by all house- 
keepeis in good families. She had asked for that kind of thing at 
the shop. 

She laughed aloud at herself. 

” Even "baby would not know me,” she, said. “ He would take 
me for a stranger.” 

She fastened the thick veil carefully down, so that if she met any 
of tl^e servants of the hotel they would not see the change in her. 


BETWEEN TWO LOVES. 


IGO 

find theu^ armed for victory, as she thought, she set out again lor 
Meadow Lane. 

It was the dusk of the evening now: and Daisy rapped at the 
door. It was opened by a small child, who wore a very large bon- 
net. 

“ You have some rooms to let,” said Daisy. “ 1 should like to 
see them.” , , 

“ Mother,” cried the child, ‘‘ here is some one about the rooms. 

“ That’s rare good luck, l^za. Ann,” Daisy heard; ‘‘ 1 shall be 
pleased if 1 can let them just as you are going.” 

” It will be very fortunate,” replied a stiller, colder voice, which 
Daisy at once said to herselt was the housekeeper’s; then a stout, 
active, motherly-looking woman came out into the dimly-lighted 
passage. 

You want to see the rooms, ma’am?” she said to Daisy. “We 
have two, a parlor and front bedroom.” 

“ 1 should like to see them,” said Daisy; and the mistress of the 
house led the way into the front parlor. She looked round with an 
air of pride in its possession. 

“ It is a pretty room, ma’am, and very clean,” she said, mentally 
appraising her visitor’s dress. “ Not worth more than ten shillings 
a w’eek,” she said to hersell. “ Still 1 may get that.” 

While Daisy thought: 

“ She has an open face, probably an open heart; if 1 remain quiet, 
1 shall hear all about it.” 

She was not far wrong in her estimation of good 3Irs. Freeman’s 
character. 

“ The rooms are well aired, ma’am,” she said: “ indeed, my sis- 
ter, Mrs. Jordan, has been staying with me, and she has had them.” 

“ Is your sister leaving you?” she asked, in a tone of kindly in- 
terest. " 

“ Oh, yes; she is going out again as housekeeper. She is going 
to live at Sir Clinton Adair’s.” 

She pronounced the words with such an air of importance that 
Daisy involuntarily thouflrht: 

“ What would you say if you knew that Lady Adair was speak- 
ing to you?” 

“ M}^ sister, Mrs. Jordan, has been a widow some years. She has 
been Housekeeper in many grand families. She was at the Duke of 
Trelawn’p.” 

And again kindly Mrs. Freeman paused to see if her visitor w^as 
overcome by the mention of such names. Daisy making no signs, 
she continued: 

“ My sister had only one son, and they say that he has grown to 
be a rich man in America; he was to have sent tor his mother, but he 
has not done so. She left the Duke of Trelawm’s ou purpose to go 
to him: Out, as he has not sent, she has taken this place. Sije has 
been giving me tw^elve shillings a w'oek for the rooms, but I am 
willing to take ten.” 

“ 1 will give you fifteen,” said Daisy, quietly, and the wmrnan 
looked up quickly. 

“ 1 will make it up to you in attention, madam,” she said, smil- 

r 


BETWEEN TWO LOVES. IGl 

ino-ly. “ The ODiy thing is, these rooms will not be at liberty until 
my sister goes, next Thursday — that is four days yet.” 

Daisy’s tace fell; she hoped to be in the house, and to know her 
husband’s secret before then, 

” Perhaps,” she said, “ you would not mind trying to accommo- 
date me until then? I am not over-particular, and 1 should not like 
to take other rooms after seeing these.” 

“ I will speak to my sister, Mrs. Jordan,” said the woman. She 
raised her voice, calling out, ” Eliza Ann, will you come this way?” 
and then Daisy saw again the woman who had come smilingly from 
Messrs. Cooper’s office. She looked doubtful on hearing what was 
wanted. Turning to her sister, she said: 

‘‘You know', it a letter does come from Harry, 1 should give up 
Sir Clinton’s and start at once, so that, after all, my plans are im- 
cerlain. Yes, I think we may manage to accommodate the lady.” 

So it was decided that Daisy should remain and share tne rooms 
w'ith Mrs. Jordan for a few days. Nothing could have suited her 
better. Mrs. Jordan hardly understood the intense interest wdth 
which their lodger listened to every detail of her life. To Daisy’s 
disappointment, she knew nothing of Sir Clinton Adair. The only 
thing that she could tell her was, he had a very large and magnificent 
estate in the country; it was called Eastwold, and was quite a pal- 
ace in its way. 

“ Then you are not going there?” said Daisy. 

No,’' she replied, ” 1 am tor the town house; these grand peo- 
ple all have tw'o or three houses, you know — one in London and 
others in the country.” 

‘‘Have they?” asked Daisy. ‘‘Is he, then —this Sir Clinton 
Adair — one of the grand people?” 

31 rs. Jordan looked at her with some little contempt. 

‘‘ 1 should have thought,” she said, ” that any one knew that; 
he is a baronet, and is one of the richest and noblest in England.” 

” Is he married?” asked Daisy. 

” No; and 1 wonder at it. 1 saw him once at the Duke of Tre- 
iawn’s, and a handsomer man, to my mind, never was.” 

‘‘ Are you sure he is not married?” asked Daisy. 

31rs Jordan laughed. 

“Y^es,” she replied. ‘‘ 31r. Cooper, the lawyer, who engaged 
me, told me there was no Lady Adair.” 

Daisy sat in silence for some minutes, then she said: 

‘‘ That seems a great pity. With so much, he should have a wdfe 
to share it. Perhaps he will be married.” 

‘‘ 1 can not tell,” she replied, cautiously. 

‘‘ Is there anv rumor of the kind?” 

‘‘ None that 1 have heard,” she answered. 

And then Daisy proceeded to put her through a catechism of a 
housekeeper’s duties. Already a scheme was forming in her busy 
brain. 

She learned from 31rs. Jordan during those two days the chief 
duties of a housekeeper— what was expected from her, what to do, 
what to avoid. 

‘‘Do you see much of the gentlemen?” she asked. ‘‘Do you 
take your orders from them when there are no mistresses?” 


1G2 


BETWEEN TWO LOVES. 


“ AAcIl,” replied Mrs. Jordan, frankly, “to tell 5 ’’Ou the honest 
fiulh, 1 do not think much of men myself; rich or poor, gentle or 
simple, they are pretty much alike. 1 lived two years with a hus- 
l)an(l— well, 1 say no more. But, when they give an order, they 
never seem to know what to say. Tne way 1 manage them is, 1 
listen to every word, and then do what 1 think best.” 

Daisy smiled at the notion; she did not lose a minute. Mrs. Jor- 
dan had never found such an intelligent, appreciative listener be- 
fore. 

“ Shall you see Sir Clinton Adair very often?” she asked one 
morning, among other questions, and Mrs. Jordan thought how 
simple and ignorant she was. 

“ If the same rules are observed there as iu many other places,” 
she replied, “ I shall see him every morning after breakfast. The 
Duke of Trelawn used to go to his library aftpr breakfast to read 
the papers. 1 went to him there and received all the orders he had 
to give. That was a tiresome place; tliere were alwa^’s guests going 
and coming, rooms to prepare and arrange. IMy greatest trouble,” 
continued Mrs. Jordan, growing confidential/” was not so much 
the grand people themselves as their servants. To my mind, a 
duke’s valet is more trouble than a duke; a duchess’ maid gives 
more trouble than her mistress; but 1 shall not have much of that 
kind of thing at Sir Clinton’s.” 

“ Why nol?” asked Daisy, trying hard to conceal the interest she 
could not help feeling. 

“ He does not entertain— he visits a great deal; but Mr. Cooper 
said, ‘ beyond a few dinner-parties, there would not be much iu the 
way of gayety.’ ” 

So Daisy learned her lesson. She had almost resolved to ask 
Mrs. .Iordan to let her go in her place. She would olfer her a hun- 
dred ])ounds, and promise to provide for her afterward; but fate 
was kinder to her. 

Cn Tuesday morning the letter that Mrs. Jordan had so long and 
anxiously expected arrived; she was in sore distress— it ought to 
have reached her a fortnight since, and had been missent. It was 
from her son saying how anxiously he was expecting her, inclosing 
a handsome remittance for her expenses out. In the pride of her 
motherly love, she showed the letter to Daisy. It read; 

“1^0 more work, mother. I am a rich man now, but 1 shall 
never enjoy my riches until you are here to share them. 1 have a 
grand, beautiful house, but it will never be home to me until you 
are in it. 1 will not reiurn to England; 1 like America best— men 
are more equal here; so you must come to me, mother. Come by 
the Canard line, and come first-class— have every comfort. Yoii 
shall not keep house again for any one but me.” 

“ He must be a very kind son,’’ sai<l Daisy, as she returned the 
letter. “ You will go, 1 suppose?” Then a sudden hope throbbed 
in her heart and flushed lier face. “ Y'ou will not go to Sir Clinioti 
Adair’s now, 1 suppose?” she said. 

“No; I am sorry about it, 1 should not have gone about the 
place, but 1 fancied my son had changed his mind, and thought he 
had got married, or something ot that kind. 1 hai’diy know what 
to do. 1 told Mr. Cooper this might happen.” 


BETWEEN TWO LOVES. 163 

“ Do yon mean Mr. Cooper of the firm in Thavies Inn?’* asked 
Daisy, pretendin^r ignorance. 

“Yes; do you know them?*' 

“ 1 have had business with them,’’ was the evasive reply, “ In- 
deed, strange to say, 1 am going there to morrow. I know what 1 
should do in your place.” 

“ What?” asked Mrs. Jordan, briefly, 

“ 1 should write to Mr. Cooper and tell him w'hat had happened, 
and that, as you could not now take the place, he must look out tor 
some one else; and, it you like, 1 will take the letter.” 

“ It will be the best plan,’' said Mrs. Jordan. “ 1 shall not cer- 
tainly have time to call myself.” 


CHAPTER XLlll. 

THE NEW HOUSEKEEPER. 

Nothing succeeds like success. There had been a time when, 
strong as Daisy’s resolve was, she had no idea how the task before 
her was to be accomplished ; now it seemed as though her path was 
made so straight she could not help tripping over it. Mrs. Jordan 
confided to her that she was no great scholar, and slie therefore 
ottered to assist with the letter. It was written, sealed, and ad- 
dressed. Only for a few minutes had Daisy a horrible pain of sus- 
pense — it was when Mrs. Jordan, looking with some complacency 
at the letter, said : 

‘* Perhaps, after all, it would be better to send it by the post.” 

She dare not show any anxiety, but replied quite calmly, 

“ Perhaps it would. 1 am going to the post with some letters of 
my own; shall I take it for yonV 

Then, with the privilege that ought to be reserved entirely for 
ladies, j\lrs. Jordan changed her mind. 

“ After all, it will be better for you to take it,” she said; “ it will 
save them the trouble of writing to me, and you can tell me what 
they say.” 

Daisy started on her errand. 

“ There is only one thing in the way,” she thought; “ I shall have 
to evade the truth. 1 will not tell a lie, but 1 can not adhere to 
the strict truth— 1 must evade it. 1 will gn to Thavies Inn and 
wait about there until 1 see Mr. Cooper; that will help me. If she 
leaves England on Saturday next, as she says, 1 am safe enough, 
yiie will not have time to think about Sir Clinton Adair.” 

She went to Tliavies Inn, and waited there until Mr. Cooper 
came out of his utfice; then she went back to Meadow Lane. 

“ I have been a long time away,” she said, “ but 1 have had 
several little matters to altend to.” 

Mrs. Jordan did not seem vitally interested; she had done with it 
all now, and only wanted to be with her son. Her heart was over 
the sea with her boy, not in J.ondon. 

“ I went to Thavies Inn,” said Daisy, ” and 1 saw Mr. Cooper."® 

“ Vvell,” said Mrs. Jordan, “ was he angry?” 

“ ISo, he did not seem to be. 1 think they have some one else— 
some one he knows — to go in your place,” 


164 


]?ETWEEN TWO LOVES. 


“That is all right, then,” said Mrs. Jordan; “1 should have 
been sorry to inconvenience them; but if they have some one else 
in my ]:lace, 1 shall give the matter another thought.” 

“ Now,” said Daisy to herself, “ the coast is clear for me.” 

5She made all her airangements; she purchased a plain, black silk 
dress, white lace caps such as she saw Mrs. Jordan wore; she pui- 
chased a pair of spectacles, and laughed at herself when she was 
fully equipped. 

“ 1 shall be able to look Sir Clinton Adair in the face,” she said, 
“ and he will not know me.” 

On the Thursday morning she affected to receive a letter; she 
called her landlady into her room, and told her how sorry she was 
to be compelled to leave at a day’s notice, but she had resolved 
upon paying a month’s rent. 

The busy little woman looked somewhat cr(;st-fallen al finding 
that she w^as to lose so good a lodger; the money consoled her, an(l 
they parted on good terms. 

Some short time after that, with all her difTiculties ended, Daisy 
found herself at the door of Lifdale House. She took wifli her two 
boxes, which she hoped would present a sufficiently imposing ap- 
l^earance. 

It was soon known among the servants that the new house- 
keeper, Mrs. Jordan, had arrived. They vied with each other 
which should pay her the most attention, knowing that much of 
their comfort would depend on her good will. A pleasant-looking 
house-maid, Margerie Low, volunteered to show her to her room. 

Daisy was thankful for the relict— her heart was beating so fast, 
it was with difficulty she breathed. At the top of the grand stair- 
case IMargerie pointed to a suite of apartments. 

“ Those are Sir Clinton’s rooms,” she said; and again Daisy was 
in danger of losing her self-possession. 

It seemed so curious to hear her husband’s name from these 
strangers. 

Then she went to her room, fondly hoping to have a few minutes’ 
rest; but IMargerie Low intended to stand high in the good graces of 
the new housekeeper. She persisted in remaining to help her, and 
Daisy was compelled to submit. 

“Anything 1 can do for 3 mu, Mrs. Jordan?” said Margerie. 
“Sir Clinton said that I was to wait upon you,” 

“ That was very kind,” said Daisy, unguardedly, and the house- 
maid looked up in wonder at the expression. 

Then she became eloquent about her master— telling what a good, 
kind master he was, and how much better it would be for him if 
he would marry, he seemed so sad, so lonely. 

“ Lonely!” said Daisy —it w^as on her lips to cry out, “ he has a 
wife and child;” but prudence prevailed, and she said nothing. 

Margerie smiled again. 

“ \Ve live in hopes,” she said; “people may think what they will, 
but 1 know that Sir Clinton loves some one.” 

“ How do 3 ’ou know it?” asked Daisy. 

“ 1 could tell by a hundred signs,” replied shrewd Margerie. 

Tiien Daisy saw that if she were to have a few minutes to herself 
she must send the good-natured girl away. 


JJETWEEN TWO LOVES. 1G5 

“ 1 wish you would make me a cup of tea, IVIargerie/’ she said; 
“lam tired.” 

Away went the house-maid, and the 3^oung wife was left alone. 
She fastened the door, lest, returning suddenly, Margerie should 
surprise her; then kneeling down, she buried her face in her 
hands. She wanted to pray — to ask Heaven to help her, to bless her 
enterprise— but she could not; her heart beat, her brain burned; 
she could only pray with parted lips that seemed to ask mercy in 
their faint whispers. 

She was under the shelter of her husband’s roof at last — here in 
his house— in the house where she ought to have been so eagerly 
welcomed— here in disguise— here where she should see him, speak 
to him, and he would not know her. It would be a terrible trial, 
but she could bear that, and more, it she could find out his secret. 

After a time she grew calmer. The house-maid returned with the 
tea; she drank it, and then wus rather startled at seeing Margerie's 
large brown eyes fixed on her face. The girl looked at her so in- 
tenly that Daisy grew startled, and said to her at last; 

“ What makes you look at me so?” 

“ 1 can not tell,” said Margerie. “ You look young, yet you look 
old; you have a strange face, Mrs. Jordan — they said you were cl- 
cleily.” 

“ So 1 am,” said Daisy, sharply. ' 

“ Your face looks so smooth. 1 thought you would be a very 
different person.” TVnd in some vague way after that Margerie was 
much less familiar with the new housekeeper. 

The housekeeper’s room was on the first floor, and as Daisy w^ent 
down she heard the w’ell-known, well-loved voice of her husband; 
he was speaking to one of the servants, inquiring if she had come. 
For one minute Daisy stood quite still, and it seemed to her that she 
must fall on her face and die— that she had neither the strength nor 
the courage to meet him. She stood still and silent as a marble 
statue, then roused herself; she must either go on and meet him, or 
she must run risrht away. Again she heard the well-loved voice: 

“ You can tell Mrs. Jordan that I will see her at once; 1 am 
going out and have not many minutes to spare. 1 shall be in the 
librar}'’.” 

A reprieve. She drew a long, deep breath; she was saved at 
least tor a few minutes. 

Then Adolphe, the valet, came to her. He bowed, after the fash- 
ion of his nation, polite to every one in woman’s garb. 

“ Sir Clinton wishes to sec Mrs. Jordan; he is in the library.” 

“ Which is the library door?” she asked. 

He showed it to her, and, bringing all her courage to bear, she 
knocked at it. 

“ Come in.” said her husband’s voice, and Daisy, with trembling 
hands, opened the door and went in. 

He was serded at a table, writing busily. He laid down his pen 
when she entered, and, turning round in his chair, looked at her. 

“ Good-day, Mrs. Jordan,” he said, in a cheerful voice; “ 1 am 
very glad to see you.” 

She stood quite still, thanking Heaven in her heart that she had 
put on the blue spectacles, still without the least movement. She 


1G6 


BETWEEN TWO LOVES, 


saw a puzzled expresrJon pass over his face, as though sometliing 
half bewildered him, Iheu it passed away, and he was himself. 

“ 1 am afraid,” he said, “ that you will find everything in great 
disorder; my late housekeeper left me in a very hurried fashion; 
you must try to manage as well as you can.” 

Daisy made a courtesy that at any other time would liave made 
her smile. She did not answer, indeed she could not have spoken 
a word just then to have saved her life. 

‘‘lam not very much at home, myself,” he continued, ‘‘ so that 
double vigilance is required on the part of my housekeeper. 1 
should like you to come to me every morning for orders. Today 
1 shall not return to dinner— to-morrow 1 have some friends. You 
can make your arrangements for them, and submit them to me.” 

‘‘ Ves, Sir Clinton,” she said, in a faint low voice so faint that ho 
barely heard it; even the low sound caused him to look more cu- 
riously at her. 

“ You saw J\lr. Cooper, Mrs. Jordan, 1 suppose?” he continued; 
and again her reply was hardly audible. 

‘‘ lie informed you of all needful arrangements, and settled every- 
thing to your satisfaction, 1 suppose?” 

‘‘ Yes,” said Daisy. 

The impulse was so strong upon her lo fly to him, to clasp her 
arms round his neck, to say : 

‘‘ Do you not know me? Can any disguise hide me from you? 1 
am Daisy— Daisy, 5'’our wife!” 

For one half minute that impulse was so slroirg, it was with the 
utmost difficulty she controlled it. 

She saw Sir Clinton take up his pen and dip it into the ink; then 
she knew that their interview was over. 

Sir Clinton looked up suddenly again. 

“You must be sure fo tell me,” he said, “if there is any evil 
that requires remedying. In a large household, without a mistress 
to superintend it, servants are apt lo grow careless; if you have any 
complaint to make, 1 shall always find leisure to attend to you.” 

Ihen he resumed his writing, and she went away. She trembled 
in every limb; her face was pale as death; great drops stood on 
her brow. It seemed to her that no wmman could have gone 
through so much and have lived. 

“ lie did not know me,” she thought. “Ah, well! no disguise 
that he could have assumed would ever have hidden him from me; 

1 should have known him in spite of all.” 

She had been halt startled by his pale, worn face; evidently he 
was not in Fingland for the sole purpose of enjoying himself; he 
looked wan, haggard, full of care — he looked worse than she iiad 
ever seen him. There was something despondent about him. Could 
it be that he was lonely and unhappy away from her? 

It was hard work to attend to the duties of a house, to give her . 
attention to plate and linen, to the complaints of house nudds, the 
blunders of footmen, the wants of the cook; it was not for that .stu* 
was there, but to know the secret of her husband’s life — to iind out 
if he loved any one else instead of loving her— to know why he left ' 
her in France, and never spoke of bringing her home. 


BETWEEiq’ TWO LOVES. 


1G7 

These were the thou.cihls that occupied her mind, causing the serv- 
ants to look at her in wonder :is she made one error after another. 

Then Daisy, when she saw the expression of sui prise on tlie face 
of tliose around her, roused herself. She must be on the alert; she 
must not give way to dreams. If she was ever to mastei the secret 
of Sir Clinton’s life, she must be more on the alert, and not cause 
any suspicion of herself. 


CHAPTER XLIV. 

THE TREASUKED ROSE. 

“Was there ever a fate so strange as mine?” said Daisy to her- 
self. 

“ Here 1 am housekeeper in this magnificent mansion, where 1 
ought to be mistress; here 1 am a servant in my husband’s home — 
1, who am really Lady Adair.” 

She had ri.sen early on this rriorning after her instnllmeut at Lif- 
dale House. She wanted to look about her, to become familiar 
with the rooms, to find her way — above all, to see if there was any- 
where any trace of herself, or of any other’s love. She asked Mar- 
gerie to show her the different rooms, and the good-natured girl 
cheerfully consented, talking gayly to her all the time. 

“ 1 have heard,” she said, “ that Sir Clinton’s place in the coun- 
try, Eastwold, is very beautiful. Have you seen it, Mrs. Jordan?” 

No; Mrs. Jordan had only heard of it. 

“ 1 have heard that at Eastwold there is a magnificent suite of 
rooms, that were prepared by Sir Clinton for some lady whom he 
never married after all.” 

The housekeeper turned quickly away lest the girl should .see the 
pallor that overspread her face. 

“A lady that he never married!” she repeated; “who was it, 
Margerie?” 

“ 1 do not know. 1 have heard the servants talk about it, hut 1 
know nothing myself. The}'' said that he loved some lady very 
dearly, and that he had these beautiful rooms all made ready for 
her; and afterward they parted, no one knows how or why. The 
rooms have been shut up ever since, and he will not allow them to 
be opened.” 

“ Did you never know' who it was?” asked poor Daisy. 

“No; "nor 1 never heard why they parted; but 1 shall alwa 3 ^s 
think that is what makes Sir Clinton so silent and so sad— though 
he seems to have cheered up a little of late.” 

“ Can that be because of me?” thought Daisy. 

Rut her heart misgave her sadly. There must be another love in 
the wa}’. She did not like to ask any more questions. A moment’s 
rellection showed her that it was an injury to her husband’s dignity 
to ask (Questions of his servants. She cpiickly turned the conversa- 
tion, but she did not forget one word of it. She looked through 
the rooms— there w as no trace of her, none of the child— no photo- 
graph, no note, no half-finislied letters, nothing that could have 
betrayed his marriage even to the most curious of servants. She 
saw nothing else, not one single memento of any woman. She 


BETWEEN TWO EOVES. 


1G8 

looked al the cards l^'iug od the hall table. There were all kinds 
of grand names— none tl»ut interested her. 

She was surprised at the splendor of the house; everything in it 
was superb; the thought that occurred to her constantly was that 
he had all this, j'et had never told her. Her bab}’, the lovely, 
laughing boy she had left in France, was heir to all this splendor, 
Peir to the title his father bore, heir of Eastwold. Ah, how care- 
tully she must keep the secret ot this masquerade of hers for her 
boy's sake!— no one must know that she had been in his father’s 
house disguised. 

In the drawing-room Daisy saw one picture that attracted her 
attention; it was not a portrait, merely a study of a woman’s face, 
laughing and lair, with golden hair and white brow, with dark 
violet eyes and sweet mobile lips. It was a picture that had attracted 
yir Clinton’s attention because of its likeness to. Lady May. Daisy 
looked long and eagerly at it — she had seen no one like it. Could it 
be that it resembled any one Sir Clinton knew? 

“■You are admiring that picture,” said Margerie; “Sir Clinton 
likes it. 1 often see him standing before it with a smile on his lips. 
It 1 were in his place, young, and handsome, and rich, and loved a 
beautiful lad)^ like that, 1 would soon make her Lady Adair.” 

The name struck Daisy like a blow— she was Lady Adair; no 
other could ever lay claim to the title or bear the name. Then she 
asked where Sir Clinton took his breakfast, and was told in the 
morning-room. 

“ Very sad and very unreal it looks,” said Margerie, “ to see a 
gentleman like him sitting down to the breakfast-table alone — 
always alone; he does not care to use the dining-room unless we 
liave company.” 

“ It is to the morning-room, then, that 1 must go,” she said, 
“ when 1 want to see him?” 

The answer was “ Yes.” 

“ There are some rooms you have not seen yet, Mrs. Jordan — Sir 
Clinton’s room — his study; very few people are allowed to enter 
there; he keeps his papers and all kinds of treasures there; the 
housekeeper always cleaned that herself ; he would not even let us 
enter.” 

“ And there,” thought Daisy to herself— “ Ihere, it any place, 1 
shall find the clew to my husband's secrets.” 

After breakfast she went to him. As she looked at him she half 
wondered that he should prefer this solitude to his cheerful home at 
Leville. Here he was alone; there she had always been with him, 
ready to wait upon him, to attend him, to talk to him; he sat in the 
midst of blooming flowers and singing birds; this seemed to her 
very lonely by contrast. Sir Clinton did not look up this time. 

“We shall dine at eight, Mrs. Jordan; 1 have four gentlemen 
coming; you will see that the cook sends us a good dinner. Have 
you found everything, so far, to your satisfaction?” 

“Yes, Sir Clinton,” replied Daisy. 

He turned round suddenly. 

“ Mrs, Jordan,’' he said, “ have I seen you before? Your voige 
is strangely familiar to me.” 


I 


BETWEEI^- TWO I.OVES. ICO 

She WJis liulf alarmed, but consoled herself thiaking that it 
was quite impossible that he could recognize her. 

“ 1 do not remember, Sir Clinton,'’ she said. “ 1 have been in 
many places.” 

He looked attentively at her. 

“ You have a voice" exactly like another one that 1 know,” he 
said; to himself he added, in a low voice, ” It troubles me.” 

Daisy made a courtesy, and went away. 

” 1 wish 1 could disguise my voice,” she thought. “ It will betray 
me.” 

” Jt troubles me,” said Sir Clinton. 

Why should it trouble him? 

Then she met Adolphe, who told her his head ached, and he 
should like some green tea. 

“ Were you up late last night?” she asked him. 

The discreet valet replied that he really never looked at the clock 
when his master returned. 

” It could not have been late thougii,” he continued, “ for he 
was at Cliffe House, and he never stays late there.” 

That day Sir Clinton was out in the morning. He rode after 
lunch; then his friends came to dinner; so that she did not see 
much of liim; but going into the library, later on, she saw a letter 
addressed to herself, lying on the table; she read the direction — 
“Mrs. Clilton, Leville, France.” Then he was writing to her, he 
was not forgetting her It was such a stjange life, this of hers. 
But as yet she had seen nothing to corroborate her suspicions, no 
letters came to him that caused him any emotion. 

One evening he came home to dinner, and in his hand he held, 
very carefully, a white rose, A small, lovely rose, so nicely ar- 
ranged, with the green leaves, Daisy felt sure* that some lady had 
worn it. He passed her in the hall. 

“ Mrs. Jordan,” he said, “ get me some fresh, cold water; 1 want 
to preserve this flower.” 

With her own hand she brought him a small vase containing 
clean, cold water; and he placed the white rose in it. She saw that 
he had completely forgotten lier presence; he bent over the little 
bud. She saw him touch it with his lips, and she wondered wdiere 
lie had obtained it. She noticed how jealously he guarded it; he 
allowed no one to touch it. He kept it living as long as he could. 
W'hen faded it disappeared, and Daisy knew that he had taken it. 

“ If he loves any one,” she thought to herself. “ it is the person 
from whom he had had that flower.” How was she to discover 
who that was? She longed to know how he received his letters 
fr«m France— if they gave him pleasure or pain; and she so man- 
aged one of her morning visits to his study, that it occurred identic- 
iifly at post-time. Just as she opened the door the footman was 
th(;re with a small bundle of letters on a silver salver. Her quick 
eve detected one from herself, from France, among them. 

”1 will give those to Sir Clinton,” she said, and the man left the 
salver in her hands. 

As usual, Sir. Clinton was reading when she entered. She laid 
the salver dowm. 

- ‘ The letters. Sir Clinton/’ she said, in a low voice. 


liETWEEN" TWO LOVES. 


170 

.lie took them up inslantly, and she saw the first that riveled his 
attention was her own. It was not pleasure that shone in his lace, 
for from it his eyes seemed to take a deeper shadow; his hands 
slightly trembled; he took it up and put it in his pocket; the others 
he laid carelessly on the table. 

There was trouble in his face and in his voice — no delight, no 
pleasure, no love — deep, bitter trouble, and the last gleam of hope 
died, faint as it was, in her heart when she saw that troubled face. 
He did not seem to hear what she said; he waved his hand to the 
door. 

“ Will you please to return in half an hour?” he said. ‘‘ I am 
rather put about; 1 can attend better to you then.” 

It was her letter which put him about— she felt quite sure of 
that; he had looked right enough at first. 

There was a horrible ])ain in her heart as this ^conviction flashed 
over her; she had felt but little hope; the certainty seemed more 
than she could bear. 

She returned in half an hour, and had rapped twice at the door 
before he heard her; then, when she entered, she saw her own letter 
lying on the table open before him; his head was bent on his hands; 
he had evidently read it, and was thinking deeply. Was she mis- 
taken, or could it be possible that the eyes raised to hers w^cre dim 
wiih tears? There were great lines of pain round the lips. Before 
speaking to her he took the letter in his hands and tore it into 
shreds; even those shieds he most carefully burned; then he gave 
his attention to her, but she saw that it was quite mechanical. He 
listened; he said yes or no; but she felt quite sure that he had not 
heard one word. 

‘‘ 1 beg your pardon, 8ir Clinton,” she said, respectfully, in that 
feigned voice of hers; ” 1 hope you have had no bad news.” 

” JNo,” he replied, listlessly, ” I have not.” 

“ You are not looking so well, sir, this morning. Is there any- 
thing 1 can do for you?” 

He seemed pleased by her kindly interest. 

” Nothing,” he replied, “ thank you, Mrs. Jordan.” 

She longed to say more, but dare not. Slowly enough she went- 
aw^ay, closing the door behind her. 

” 1 know what is the matter,” she thought, indignantly; “you 
have a letter from the wife you dislike, and the thought ot her has 
been painful to you.” , 

She noticed that all the morning Sir Clinton remained in his 
room. She met Adolphe going out with a tri-cornered note in his 
hand. 

” Does Sir Clinton lunch at home?’ she asked. 

” Yes; he was engaged to go to Clifie House, but 1 am just taking 
a note of apology there.” 

It was the second time that she had heard the name ” Cliffe 
House,” and in the midst of all her pain she felt a dull wonder as 
to who lived there, and why he went so often. IMore than once 
that day she heard the comments ot the servants— how out of spirits 
Sir Clinton was! how dull, how aepressed, how ill he was looking! 

“ AVhy does he not marry?” cried honest Margerie; ‘‘ he wouUl 
not sit at home alone all day in that fashion *jt he had a wife.” 


/ 


BETWKEN TWO LOVES. 


171 


Another solemnly shook her head. 

“ In my opinion,” she said, ” there is some reason why he does 
not marry, and the same reason makes him always sad.” 

Daisy, listening, heard all, and kept the words buried in her 
heart. 


CHAPTER XLV. 

DAISY MAKES A DISCOVERY. 

Daisy had been three weeks at Lifdale House, and she was no 
nearer the knowledge of her husband’s secret than she had been at 
first. She had heard nothing, learned nothing, discovered nothing. 
Her husband was, as he said, not much at home; when he was he 
had usually one or two gentlemen with him. She saw nothing un- 
usual in his conduct, except his constant sadness and depression. 

” Has your master had any great trouble?” she asked Adolphe, 
one morning. 

The valet looked at her with his fathomless eyes. 

” 1 have never asked him, Mrs. Jordan,” he replied. 

Her face flushed at what she thought was a rebuke. 

” Do not think 1 am curious, pray,” she said, proudly; ” but he 
is very kind to every one, and it seems so strange that he should be 
sad and care-wmrn.” 

” Englishmen have strange characters,” said Adolphe, the pro- 
found. ” 1 always think that they seem to enjoy a little misery.” 

” What should Sir Clinton have to make him miserable?” quoth 
Daisy; and again the valet replied only by a look of profound mean- 
ing. 

‘‘ Adolphe,” she asked, suddenly, ” where is Clilfe House?” 

Ko muscle of that well-trained face even stirred. 

“lean not quite tell the locality,” he replied; ‘‘somewhere in 
Hyde Park w'ay.” 

‘‘ Who lives there?” w’as the next question.. 

He was evidently prepared for it. He said: 

‘‘ ]t is a large house, only inhabited, 1 think, during the London 
season. When 1 called there 1 saw an elderly lady, very amiable, 
but decidedly you understand.” 

Daisy breathed a sigh of relief. It was quite evident that Sir 
Clinton did not go there to see any one in particular. 

He sent for her one morning. 

” Mrs. Jordan,” he said, ‘‘Ido not care for the servants to go into 
my study; will you be kind enough to make it presentable for me 
to-day? I can trust you not to disturb my papers, and if you lilt 
any of them up for tire sake of dusting, be kind enough to leave 
them just as you find them.” 

Her heart gave one great bound. At last she should be on the 
track— at last she should discover that which, with her whole soul, 
she desired to know. 

It waswitli difficulty that she controlled herself. When he told 
her aft the litile details of what he required done, she longed to be 
doing it. ■ ■ . 

Ydu quite understand, Mrs. Jordan?” he said, at length. 


172 BETWEEN^ TWO LOTES. 

In licr excitement she forgot her disguise, and replied, in her nat- 
ural voice: 

“ Quite.’' 

lie looked up so quickly that she was afraid. 

“ 1 am one of those haunted by voices,” he said, in a tone of 
great melancholy. 

She saw him quit the house, and, with her whole soul trembling 
with eager anxiety, she hastened to his room. A feeling halt of 
shyness came over her as she stood there. It was like a shrine or a 
sanctuary to her. How well she remembered those careless, untidy 
ways — books left open, papers ali in a confused mass, extracts, 
poems, essays, everything in disorder. At Leville she had been ac- 
customea to arrange all methodically for him, to sort his letters and 
papers, to arrange them in proper order; here she would not dare 
to do it; he would most surely reeognize what he, called her orderly 
touehes. 

She drew a deep breath of relief as she stood there with time to 
examine all, time to search for the traces she felt sure of finding. 

The first thing that struck her was a book which had fallen open 
on tc the floor, liaising it, she saw the welbknown lines--lines over 
which she had often thought and pondered. The page was turned 
down, so that there could be no mistake. 

“ I am weary waiting— 

Waiting for the May.’' 

What could possibly make him think so much of those lines? — 
what could they mean? They seemed fatal to her. There were traces 
of something here. She found a small, white kid glove, so pretty 
and daintily perfumed. From whose hand had that been taken? 

She found a knot of ribbon, the palest lavender; she found dried 
flowers, a very beautiful valentine, and several other little mementoes 
that had come from some lady, but not from herself. Indeed, as she 
looked leisurely through these papers, it grieved her to find that 
there was nothing in all the world which referred to herself — no 
mention of her name, no mention of Leville, none of their home, 
none ot tlieir little child. It v'as as though she did not exist. 
Tears of wounded love and mollified pride filled her eyes. It was 
cruel to be so completely ignored. 

” He might just as well have no wife,” she cried. 1 do not be- 
lieve that he remembers my existence, except when he receives my 
letters.” 

Then she found among the papers on the talde several beautiful 
little books of poems. She did not scruple to open them; they all 
contained the same inscription — ” A mon ami, from M. T. ” 

” Wlioever it is, this M. 1'.,” said Daisy to herself, ” itisa person 
who knows his taste. All poetry, poetry. Oh, if, amid his jDoetry, 
he would but remember me!” 

She found no more. Some of the drawers in the escritoire were 
locked; what they might contain was another matter. She had 
found nothing up to this time which could give her any clew 'as to 
whom he loved, or whether, indeed, he loved any one at all. 

She did not dare to arrange his papers as she had done at Leville; 


BETWEEN TWO LOVES. 173 

but slie sliowefl so much taste aud iutelligence iu her disposal of 
them, that Sir Clinton was much pleased. 

“ ]\lrs, Jordan,” he said, ” you are a rara avis. You have con- 
trived to make my room look nice without driving me half mad by 
losing my papers.” 

” 1 am happy to have pleased you, Sir Clinton,” she said. 

“1 am so well pleased,” he replied, laughing, and it was the first time 
she had seen him laugh since she had entered the house — ” 1 am so 
well pleased,” he said, “ that 1 shall trust the care of my room to 
you. You have the sense to discriminate; you do not imagine 
manuscript to be waste paper. Have you lived with literary people? 
1 should imagine so from your tact.” 

‘‘ Y'es, Sir Clinton,” replied Daisy; “ 1 lived— I kept house for a 
gentleman who wrote.” 

” What did he wu-ite?” asked Sir Clinton, with some little interest. 

” That 1 do not know, sir. They said — people said who knew 
him— that he was unhappily married, and that he w’Tote to distract 
his attention from domestic miseries.” 

She saw her husband's face flush a dusky red; he dropped the 
conversation at once. 

“You will take charge of my room, then,” he said; “you can 
attend to it every morning when 1 am out.” 

“ To think,” she said to herself, “that he never suspects me — 
that he nevei recognizes me! How little he must care for me!” 

There w^as nothing that she dreaded so much as that he should 
recognize her, yet she felt aggrieved that he did not. She hastened 
to her room after this conversation; she closed tlie door, and took 
off the false gray hair, the blue spectacles, aud other disguises. She 
shook her head until the fair, brown tresses fell in their waving 
loveliness round her shoulders; then she looked anxiously at herself 
in the glass, 

“ Thank Heaven,” she said, with peculiar piety, “ that 1 am at 
least as passable as 1 have ever been. \ had almost grown to think 
of myself as an old woman, and lorgotten that, in my dear old 
home, people called me pretty Daisy Erne. Would to Heaven that 
1 were Daisy Erne now! Lady A-dair is not a happy woman.” 

She stretched out her round, white arms above her head; it was 
such a luxury to be herself again, to look at her beautiful arms and 
hands, to feel her shining hair loose, to see the color of her beauti- 
ful blue eyes. 

“ 1 am almost tired of being Mrs. Jordan,” thought Daisy. “If 
1 do not discover something soon, 1 shall go back to France, and 
write from there, telling my husband that 1 must come home; for 
baby’s sake, he must make our marriage known— my baby, who 
will one day be master of all this splendor.” 

She dressed herself after her old fashion again. The lime was 
drawing near when she w'as to discover all that she wished to know. 

The morning following she went to Sir Clinton’s room, arranged 
his papers, dusted the table, tilled the inkstand, gave a look of com- 
fort and homeliness in place of the desolation that had reigned 
around. 

Suddenly she saw what had escaped her observation before— a^ 
pretty envelope, lying open on the table. She took it up; there’ 


174 


BETWEEN TWO LOVES. 


was a note inside it. Should she read it? Surely, yes; her husband 
hud no ri^hl to letters that she could not read. She looked at the 
envelope; it had a sweet scd^t* it bore a coronet and a inonogram. 
Daisy was quick at understarding monograms; this was “ M. T.,” 
the same initials that she had seen in those pretty books of poems. 
She opened it at once, and read it; 


“My dearest Clinton, — We shall be _ glad to sec you to- 
morrow, and our pleasure will be doubled if you will look more 
cheerful. Miss Ijockwood says you are ill. 1 think you must be 
writing a very heavy work on theology. Whatever you may be 
doing, let nothing keep you to-monow from your devotecl 


She read the lines with a face that became almost ghostly in its 
pallor. 

“May!” It Hashed over her with the quickness of lightning. 
“May!”— it was a woman’s name, just as hers was Daisy. That 
was why he loved the lines: 

“ He was weary waiting, 

Waiting for the May.” 

And the May for whom he wearied and waited was a woman! 

She need not have been so surprised, but she was quite .stunned 
with the discovery. It would have occurred to a more suspicious 
nature lonu- ago. 

“May!”' She hated the name. She cried out wildly who was 
this who had taken lier husband’s love from her? Pride, love, and 
sorrow seemed to rage together. She was a jealous wife, a loving 
wife, a neglected wife. Nothing could be much worse — ho fate 
much harder to bear. 

“ May!” That one word seemed to stand before her in letters of 
fire. She must find out what followed it. She must find out who 
it was that her husband loved; then she should know what to do. 
He was to go there to-morrow; nothing was to keep him from his 
devoted May. Daisy forgot her assumed pharacter. 

She walked up and down the room with rapid, swift steps, her 
face flushed, her eyes expressing pride and indignation. 

Who had dared to come between husband and wife— to take her 
husband’s heart from her — to win him — to bid him go, and he 
went? Wiio called him “dearest Cliiuon,” and wrote to him 
familiarly, as though they were lovers? She could not bear it— she 
would not bear it! Only let her know who this “ May ” was, and 
she would go to the very ends of the earth to find her out, and tell 
her that Sir Clinton Aciair had a wife and child. It need not be 
very long before she knew. She had begged him to go on the 
morrow% and he wouhl be sure to go. She had but to ask Adolphe 
where Sir Clinton was going;, then she should follow him, and see 
this woman who had called him her “ deare.st Clinton;” who had 
signed herself “ your devoted May.” 


BETWEEN TWO LOVES. 


175 


' CHAPTER XLVI. 

‘l AM IN THE WAY.” 

The calm, riecorous housekeeper stood near the door, all signs of 
agitation so caretuily driven away, so carefully subdued, that not 
the least trace ot it was visible. Daisy had said to herself that she 
was on the very brink ot discovery; the least failure ot selt-contiol. 
and it was all over forever. So she stood before him mute, silent’ 
watchful, although her heart was breaking, and her whole sotil in 
despair. Slie had gone to her husband, as usual, tor orders, Tlie 
expression on her face was thoughtfully sad. He did not seem to 
see her, but to be looUing_at something afar off. 

‘‘You will dineat home to-day. Sir Clinton?” she said, though 
she knew quite well that he would not. 

A sudden light came in hil eyes, a smile to his lips; his thoughts 
had evidently flown to the reason tdiy he would not be at home — a 
tender, loving smile that made his wife’s heart ache and throb with 
jealous pain. 

‘‘Hot toeday, Mrs. Jordan. 1 shall be absent the whole day. 1 
shall lunch and dine with my friends.” 

She had known it before, but that did not prevent a terrible 
twinge ot pain. 

‘‘ There will be no need, then, for me to prepare anything this 
evening?” she said. 

‘‘ HO;” he replied; ‘‘ 1 shall not be at home until late.” 

She went away. It was well for her that Sir Clinton’s thoughts 
were elsewhere, or lie must have noticed the ghastly pallor of her 
face. She closed the door, feeling a kind ot silent rage even in the 
midst ot her despair— angry that she could not upbraid him— that 
she could not speak her mind to him. 

She watched him in silence. To those in the house she appeared 
to be engrossed in her duties; in reality she was watching him. She 
knew when he went upstairs and dressed; she noted that he oc- 
cupied more time than usual with his dressing; she saw how hand- 
some he looked when he was quitting the house, going to her rival, 
tlic woman who had stolen him from her— the rival who called her- 
self ‘‘ his devoted 31ay.” 

She must find out who this ” IMay ” was. How to set about it 
she hardly knew. She passed Adolpiie on ihe stairs, and, stopping, 
she made some little complimentary remark to him. The valet was 
decidedly pleased. Sue asked him into the houseiveeper’s room to 
take a glass ot cordial. He was more than pleased. She talked to 
him first on inditlcrent subjects, then she said to him: 

“ Sir Clinton looks very nice this morning, something like a 
brave wooer, but that 1 suppose he has no one to woo.” 

‘‘ If he has any secrets, he knows how to keep them,” said ihe 
valet. ” On my word, Mrs. Jordan, 1 can not tell whether he goes 
wooing or not. ” 


]{ET\VEEN TWO LOVES. 


176 

“ You do quite right in saying so,” she said; “ 1 have peat IC' 
spect tor a trusted servant Avho keeps his master’s counsel.” 

lie looked up at her in wonder; she had not spoken in her usual 
tone ot voice, nor did she speak in her usual manner. 

“ 1 wish,” continued Adolphe, ‘‘that Sir Clinton would marry; 
he would be more cheerful.” 

‘‘ Then,” thought Daisy, “ it is quite evident that even this trusted 
and confidential servant knows nothing ot his mpriage with me.” 

As though suddenly struck by the idea, she said. 

” Where is Sir Clinton gone to-day? He did say something, l)ut 
1 have quite forgotten what.” 

“ He has gone to Clifte House,” was the reply. 

” Cliff e House! Ah, that is where Maj'— May, what do they call 
her? — lives.” 

” Lady May Trevlyn,” said the valet. 

Daisy thought of the initials ” M. T.” 

'* Yes, Lady May Trevlyn,” she repeated, in a voice so strange 
and unnatural that the man looked at her in surprise. 

“ What do people say about Sir Clinton and Lady May?’ she 
asked, trying to speak carelessly. 

The valet laughed. 

“ If they had anything to say, it might have been said years ago. 
It »ir Clinton wanted *lo marry her, he could have married her, 
there is nothing to prevent it. 1 have heard that she refused many 
a great man for his sake.” 

‘‘ You think, then, that she likes him?” said Daisy, eagerly. 

” There can be no harm in saying what every one knows,” said 
Adolphe. ‘‘ I do certainly think that Lady Trevlyn likes him. 1 
can not tell whether Sir Clinton returns the compliment or not. The 
truth is, people have given over talking about it; we used to w^onder 
a great deal : we do not wonder now.” 

How easily she could have explained it; how easily she could have 
said, ” 1 know why he can not marry her; 1 am his wife, and far 
away in France we have a little child.” But. Daisy said nothing — 
the conversation seemed to die ot itself, and she spoke of some- 
thing else. After a few minutes she said: 

” 1 have some shopping to do this morning; I think that 1 will go 
at once.” 

Adolphe thanked her very politely for the cordial, then went away. 

Daisy resolved to go at once. She must see Cliffe House; sire 
could not rest until the outer aspect of the place was known to her; 
she would go in her disguise; she w^ould not run the risk of any rec- 
ognition or discovery yet. She put on the bonnet and cloak she had 
purchased and started out. First she had to make out where Cliffe 
House was. “ Hyde Park way ” was, after all, a very vague direc- 
tion— she w'ent into a stationer’s shop and asked. After some little 
difiiculty it was found, and she received full directions for it. She 
went the greater part of the wa}’^ in a cab, and was put down at 
some little distance from the place; then she wmnt on to the opposite 
side of the road and looked up at it — a jrrand mansion — one of the 
palatial London mansions, with balconies filled with flowers — a 
bright, suuny-looking house, 

Daisy walked slowly up and down opposite to it. Who would 


r.ETWEEN TWO LOVES. 


177 


notice her? Who would think of her? Hot, bitter tcaiS'fell from 
behind the veil, deep sobs came I o her lips; she felt utterly heart- 
broken, utterly desolate. 'What was she like— the rival who lived 
here, and had won her luisband from her? 

Just at that moment two grooms came round with two superb 
hiu-ses, and Daisy paused; she went a little way further dowm the 
road, then stood as though she were waiting for some one to join 
her. 

She saw her husband come out first from the hall door. He spoke 
a w'oid or two to one of the grooms. Then out came a lady — beau- 
tiful, with a royal grace and beauty that aw^ed Daisy. She had hair 
of golden sheen, and a wonderful face— lovely, fair, higli bred, 
with a queenly calm of manner. She was daintily atlired tn a rid- 
ing-habit and a coquettish bat, with a rich, dark plume. Daisy 
looked at her. Surely this was Lady May, wdio had stolen her hus- 
band’s heart from her— Lady May, wdio called herself his, de- 
votedly;” that beautiful, radiant wminan. Ko need to ask if lie 
loved her. He did not look the same being as the silent, gloomy 
man she had seen that morning engrossed in his own thoughts. She 
had never seen him like this— gay, with a charming ease and ani- 
mation of manner— 8 aiiling, happy, with sunshine in his eyes and 
on his lips, all called forth by the woman who loved him, and whom 
he loved. No need to asa— the w'ay in which he spoke to her, 
looked at her, helped her mount— the way in which he placed the 
dainty reins in her hands. Before mounting himself, he stood for two 
or three minutes talking to her. No need to ask — it was as though 
his face caught its reflection from hers. 

‘‘They love each other,” thought Daisy; ‘‘and they can not 
marry because 1 am in the way.” 

Then he mounted, and they rode away together in the sunlight, 
laughing gayly, leaving a broken heart behind. 

They love each other,” repeated Daisy; ‘‘ and 1 am in the way.” 

Ton have heard, reader, of people being stricken for death, per- 
haps months before they die. Those who tell the story of their last 
sickness will tell 5 mu that at a certain time a strange gray look came 
over their faces, a strange chill came over theii limbs, a shiver that 
seemed to freeze the blood, a peculiar glassy look in the eyes— relat- 
ing these symptoms, those who observe them will say, ” I knew that 
meant death.” 

So it was now’. Daisy— Lady A.dair— as she watched her hus- 
band ride aw’ay with the w’oman he loved, was stricken for death. 
Passers-by looked in w’onder at the pale, stricken face, with that 
peculiar gray look on it— she herself felt the shiver in her veins„, 
the icy hand on her heart. She stood still for some time witli this 
hand of death upon her. Then she looked no more at the brilliant 
mansion or the sun-lit road, but w’ent home — sick unto death with 
sorrow and despair. 

This was his secret. He loved Lady May Trevlyn, and she stood 
between them— but for her he could marry this beautiful, queenly 
woman, which was what he wanted. This is why he was so willing 
to leave her in France— why he had never mentioned his marriage- 
why he was always wretched and unhappy. 

She walked slowly home. The mystery was solved now’; he had 


178 


.^{ET^VKP]N TWO LOVES. 


forgoltcn Her, Daisy, his wife, Ihe simple girl who had worshiped 
liim— forgotten her. 81ie vvas but in the way, a burden to him, the 
barrier between himself and this fair, imperial woman whom he 
loved— forgotten the little child far away in France. Her heart 
seemed to ache more painfully than she could bear. I’liey were for- 
gotten — he loved no one except this lovely, high-born Lady May. 

“ Why did he marry me?” she moaneil. “ If he had gone away 
and left me, 1 shoukriiave died, but that would have been better 
than this; 1 should have died, and my mother would have buried 
me in the pretty green chureli-yard; the green grass and white 
daisies would have been growing over my head, but 1 should have 
been at peace. ’ ’ 

When she reached home she sat down to rest; her limbs trembled; 
she had no strength. It was only what she Had expected; but now 
that the blow had fallen, it was almost more than siie could bear. 

“ Why did he marry me?” sobbed the unhappy girl. 

She thought over that brief, wretched married life of hers, remem- 
bering the first blind raptures of worship, when she had not known 
or thought but that he loved her — when she had been quite content 
with her own adoration, and had expected nothing from him — when 
she had slowly, but surely, awoke to the fact that he did not love 
her — that he was different to all other husbands, that she had noth- 
ing to do with his life. Then came suspicion and discontent. She 
had found that he had deceived her; she had grown tired of his 
neglect and indifference, determined to solve the mystery, and know 
tor herself what he did in England, and why he did not bring her. 

She knew it all now. The last faint gleam had died out of her 
heart— she knew it. The only thing that remained for her now was 
to see what was best to be done. She loved him better than her- 
self; unkind and neglectful as he was, she loved him better than 
anything or any one in the world. She stretched out her hands 
with a bitter cry. 

” Oh, my love— my love!” she said, “ 1 would have died for you, 
and you haveiorgotten me!” 


CHAPTER XLVll. 

“l WILL n.VVF<: JUSTICE.” 

W HAT was she to do? That was the question which puzzled her. 
How could she free him, so as to make him happy with this beau- 
tiful woman whom he loved? Tears rained from her face as she re- 
membered the lines that he loved — ‘‘ He was weary, waiting: tor the 
jMay;” but the May he longed tor was not the sweet month of leaves 
and blossoms; it vvas a lovely, golden-haired ladyL He was wearied 
of waiting; and it was through her that he had to wait at all. It 
she were not in the way, he could marry Lady lilay. 

“He must hate me,” she thought. ‘‘Why did he marry me? 
He must hate me, and wish me dead.” 

Dead! T’he word struck her. What calm rest, what unfiroken 
sleep comes to the dead! —no wear and tear of life, no jealousy, no 
pain, no sorrow; nothing but deep, calm, sweet, unbroken rest. 


BETWEEN TWO LOVES. 


1*79 


“ Dead!” ^\'by, death was the only way in wliicb slie could free 
herself and hini, t'he knew there was such a Ihinfij as divorce, but, 
then, it must follow wrong doing; they would not give it for a mis- 
taken marriage. 

‘'If it were not wrong,” thought Daisy, ” I would kill myself. 
It 1 could go to heaven, 1 would cheerfully give up life.” 

But that could not be if she took her own life, she shoulll never 
see the face of God. Then there was the little baby— the sweet, 
laughing, cooing baby— with tiny pink hands and dimpled feet. 
She must not leave that. Baby had but herself; his father cared lit- 
tle for It— all his heart was with Lady May. 

All that day Daisy sat in her room trying to think what she should 
do. Should she go to him and upbraid him — tell him she knew all 
— she had found out his love tor Lady May? Should she insist upon 
his making their marriage public at once, and introducing her to 
the world as his wife? Ah, no; for it she did any of these things, 
he would only hate her the more. 

” 1 can not endure that,” thought Daisy. “ He does not love me, 
but 1 could not bear that he should hale me.” 

Besides which, she had no proper giounds for accusation, Ko 
one had told her that he loved the Lady May; after all, it w^as prin- 
cipally her own surmise. She was confident of it after seeing them 
together. Should she write a letter to Lady May, telling her that 
Sir Clinton Adair was mairied— and ihat he had a wife and child 
in France? She looked a proud and lofty lady, one who w'ould 
scoin even to look at an anonymous letter. Should she w'lite to 
him? She was puzzled what to do. Of one thing she was quite re- 
solved— this should not go on; she must have it ended. The best, 
the wisest plan would be to see them both together. 'When? was 
the next question. That she could decide later on; she wmuld not 
hurry her fate by any precipitation. She would have no scene by 
which the w'orld could be enlightened, but she would have justice 
for herself and her child. He might not love them, but he should 
not look at this lair woman with his heart in his eyes. 

How^ that day passed Daisy never knew. Under pretext of indis- 
position, she remained in her owm room; she could not have borne 
the sound of voices or the sight of faces— her heart was broken with 
the tragedy of her owui life. Sometimes she thought she w'ould 
creel) home to the baby, and die without one wmid of what she had 
discovered. She w^as almost tired of the useless, weary struggle. 

She could not hope now^ for his life, not even in the long years to 
come; her child’s pretty prattle and pretty w^ays would not purchase 
it for her. 

‘‘ And 1 can not wonder at it,” she thought, with her rare sweet- 
ness of humility. ” 1 am not to be compared to her; she is beauli- 
ful beyond most women. She is a lady, high-born, high- bred; I aiu 
only a country girl. No w'onder that he loves her best. Why did 
he marry me?” 

Once she thought it w\a8 just possible all this might be a rnistaKe. 
Perhaps Lady May was related to hini; they might be cousins; she 
could not tell; she would ask. If ihqy were related, ever so distant- 
ly, that would account for the friendship between them. 

hhe might have known how passionately she loved her husband 


180 


BETWEEN TWO LOTES. 


\ rom the relief that even that faint suspicion gave her. It gave her 
strength to leave her room, to go clown-stairs and talk to Adolphe 
again. All in the most casual way, she asked him if Sir Clinton 
had any relatives in London; and the answer was “No." Then 
she said: 

“ Is pot Lady May Trevlyn a distant relative of his?" 

“ No,” said Adolphe. “ You seem curious over Lady Trevlyn, 
Mrs. Jordan,” he said. “ I will tell you all I know about it, and 
this was told me by one of her household. Some years ago, when 
she was a young ffirl, they w'ere engaged to be married— they were 
lovers; then they quarreled— 1 have never heard how or why 
—they quarreled and parted. Sir Clinton went away — went by 
himself, taking no servants with him. 1 had been living with 
him three years then, and I knew no more than the others did 
about him. We all received a message through his solicitors that 
w'^e w^ere to remain on board wages. 1 have not myself the faintest 
idea where he went. It was nearly three .years before he returned 
to England; then he was so terribly changed — his face had grown 
older, and his eyes had a dim, dazed look, such as you see sometimes 
in the face of a man w’^hom sorrow has driven macl.” 

She rose from her seat with a little cry. 

“ What is it?” asked Adolphe. 

“ Nothing,” she replied, iaintly; “ a pain here at my heart; it is 
gone now, quite gone. Go on, Adolphe; you talk like a story- 
book.” 

“ 1 am pleased to interest you, Mrs. Jordan,” said the polite valet; 
“ but 1 have little more to tell. Sir Clinton came back, looking 
years older, haggard and care-worn. Every one was delighted to 
see him, and w^elcomed him warmly, lie met Lady May again, and 
they became friends. Everyone expected ihat they would marry; 
but they have not done so, and 1 do not think that any one know’s 
the reason why. 1 do not, and 1 am Sir Clinton’s trusted servant.” 

“ How strange!” murmured Daisy. 

“ Yes, it is strange; lor it is well known that Lady May refused 
some excellent offers. We quite expected every day to hear the 
marriage announced. He visits the house, lie goes everywhere 
with her; but there has been no such announcement yet, and, 1 be- 
gin to think, never will. If they meant to marry, they would have 
done so long before this. 1 do not think there will ever be a mar- 
riage now.” 

“Yet they are supposed to care for each other,” said Daisy. 

“That is the mystery; that is what the world can not under 
stand.” 

“It is like a riddle,” said Dais}', lightly, as she turned away; 

“ no one can guess it.” 

fShe spoke lightly, but the very bitterness of death was in her 
heart. She could understand it all now; it was plain as the pages 
of an open book. He had loved her, and they had quarreled; the 
quarrel with her whom he loved so intensely, wgs the sorrow which 
had driven him mad; he hud, no doubt, fallen in the woods where 
she found him, half dead with fatigue and misery. That pan of 
the story was jilain enough to her; she could imagine, too, how. 
having returned to England and finding his beautiful love true and 


BETWEEJ^- TWO LOVES. 


181 

faithful to him, the old charm had been redoubled. What slio 
could not imagine was why he had married her. That was the fatal 
mistake; but for that he would have been happy enough— he would 
have married Lady Way. That was the grand mistake, the great 
blunder, the one error which could never be remedied. Why had 
he done it? He had evidently never ceased to love Lady iMay. They 
had not been married very long when she had wondered so at his 
emotion over the lints “ Waiting for the May.” It was his beau- 
tiful love of whom he was thinking then, she knew; he had never 
ceased to love her; then why had he married any one else? That 
w\as the only mystery left now in the whole story. It could not 
have been that he loved her — that was not possible; he had asked 
her to be his wife, to marry him; but he had never said much about 
love; besides which, any faint, feeble affection that he had for her, 
was nothing compared to the intensity of liis love for Lady May. 

‘‘ AVhy did he marry me?” cried tire unhappy girl, wringing her 
hands. 

Better a thousand times to be sleeping under the daisies than to be 
here — better to be dead, than living to shut out all hope of happiness 
for herself. No idea of the truth occurred to her; no suspicion that 
he had married her from an impulse of manly kindness and gen- 
erosity. She bewildered herself in trying to discover how it was. 

He had evidently repented of it, lor he had taken no steps to in- 
troduce her to any one — indeed, no one here in England knew any- 
thing about her. A sudden flush of anger burned her face; her 
passionate, despairing love gave place to angry pride. She felt that, 
let him have what excuse he might, he had spoiled her life witliout 
having any motive tor it. 

T hen Daisy was compelled to leave her thoughts and go down- 
stairs, where a variety of duties no one else could perform were 
waiting for her— duties that she began to loathe, 

“ It will not be for much longer,” she said to herselt ; “ 1 will take 
good care of that.” 

She loathed this great, splendid house, with its profusion and 
luxury; it seemed to her lo embody one of the reasons why he had 
not proclaimed his marriage with her. She fancied he was ashamed 
to introduce her, ashamed to show her as the mistress of all his 
wealth, 

” 1 can do without it,” said Daisy, with a curling lip; ‘‘ I do not 
want it, but 1 will have justice tor myself and my child.” 

A most unfortunate idea came to her then; it was that he liad 
married her to avenge himself on Lady May, and then, when the 
deed was done, he had not the courage to avow it. Daisy felt that 
she had solved the problem at last— she had never been loved, never 
been cared for. She was but a means of revenge; her heart, her life, 
her love had been as nothing. He had married her to avenge him- 
self on his beautiful lady love; then, when his courage failed him, 
he had carefully kept her out of sight. 

” And my life,” said the girl, ” has gone for nothing — gone foi 
the whim of an hour— my life, that is so much to me, and so little 
to any one else.” 

She felt quite sure that she understood it all now, that the whole 


182 


HETWEEN TWO 


Story lay open befoie her; and a vehement desire for justice took 
possession of her. 

“ 1 will make him own me as his wife before her,” she said. 
” 1 will make liim tell me in her presence why he married me. 1 
will ha\e justice as 1 have never had love.” 

It was late before Sir Clinton returned; she, sitting, watching the 
hours with jealous eyes, knew how late. Ah, w^ell, it would not be 
for much longer. She thought Heaven was very merciful; there 
was plenty of room for her in heaven, alhough no one w'anted her on 
earth. She would have justice; then she would go home to her 
baby and die. 

‘‘ 1 will pray so earnestly for death,” she said to herself, ‘‘ that 
Heaven will never refuse to hear me.” 


CHAPTER XLVlll. 

A SUllPllISE IMMINENT. 

The housekeeper did not go the next morning as usual for her 
orders; she sent Margerie in her place, who, in answer to Sir Clin- 
ton’s polite inquiries, replied that Mrs. Jordan w’’as not \vell. He 
was sorry, but he was going out again, so that he begged she W’ould 
not give herself any trouble that day on his account. 

Daisy w’as really ill— not in any danger, but wearied out with 
emotion and suspense. Her head ached so painfully that she could 
not endure the light; when she tried to rise it was as though her 
strength failed her, and she had the good sense to perceive that un- 
less she rested in time she might possibly have a severe illness— such 
rest as it was, when every thought was pain, and the strongest feel- 
ing she was capable of was an intense longing to die. 

It was four days before she rose again; then she felt strangely 
weak and ill. One of the first things "she did w’as to go to Sir Clin- 
ton’s study, which had been neglected during her absence. It did 
not look as though he had been much in it There were some let- 
ters scattered about, l)ut that which angered her most, and brouglit 
matters to a crisis, was lliat she saw on the mantel-piece a letter 
from France, from herself, that had been, by the post-mark upon 
it, lying there for four days, and was still unopened. It was dusty 
and dirty; it had evidently lain there unopened ever since it came. 
That was the climiax. As she held that letter in her hands all gen- 
tler feelings seemed to die out of Daisy’s heart; her face burned 
with anger, her heart beat fast, her hands trembled, her sweet face 
was not at that moment pleasant to see. 

” So, ’ she said, slowly, ” it is even too much trouble to open my 
letters now. It might have been to tell him that baby w^as ill, to 
ask him to come— it might have been most important; no matter, he 
had no time to read it; he remembers nothing but Lady there 

is no thought, no care, no consideration for me. Now 1 will have 
justice; there has been no mercy shown to me, 1 will slmw none. 
1 will find out where he is, and confront him with her.” 

Adolphe vvas not in the house, but one of the footmen gave her 
all the information that she required. Of course he was gone to 


UKTWEEaN' TWO LOVES. 183 

OlifTe House; the pity was lie could not live there. A bitter smile 
’curled her lips. 

“ 1 need hardly have asked the question/' she thought; “where 
is it likely he should be? He has no time to read my letter, he has 
to go to Cliffe House. If I wanted anything to nerve me, this will; 
if my courage fails me, lhave but to remember that my life was less 
than nothing to him, that he has spoiled it for a whiin, that he mar- 
ried me as an act of vengeance, and thefp had not the courage to 
carry out his revenge. 1 have but to think of my own broken heart 
and my little child’s face. 1 shall have courage for anything then. 
Good-by to IVIrs. Jordan! Good-by to Lifdale House! Stay— for 
my child’s sake, no one must know that 1 have been here, I will 
go, and leave no traces; they may say the housekeeper left sudden- 
ly and without cause, but they will never connect the housekeeper 
with Lady Adair. What a mockery it seems to think that 1 am 
Lady Adair!" 

She weiiT, for the last time to her room, impatiently enough; she 
pulled off the false gray hair; she had all her senses about her; she 
burned the gray front lest it should be found; the white caps he 
left in the bureau drawer. In her box she had one dress that she 
had purchased in case of any such contingency as this, a dress of 
black velvet; it was some relief to throw off the quaint costume 
that had disguised the grace and elegance of her beautiful figure, and 
array herself once more in a dress that suited her youthful beauty. 
Even in the midst of her sadness and despair Daisy did not forget 
that; she looked fair enough for any man to love; with that flush 
on her flower-like face, that light of resolution in her eyes, fair and 
graceful as woman need be. Yet she laughed as she looked at that 
reflection of herself; what did it matter how fair she was? he would 
never love her, never care for her; the woman he loved was a thou- 
sand times more beautiful than she. 

It seemed so Jtrange going through the streets in her own char- 
acter. She did not notice the admiring glances bent on her, the ad- 
miring eyes that followed her. She thought only of finding her 
husband at Cliffe House. ]\Iauy a passer-by stopped to look at this 
beautiful fair-haired woman in the black velvet dress, whose face 
was SO unconscious, and whose eyes seemed to look so far away. 
Daisy passed on, the sun was shining brightly, the sky was blue, 
the western wind svreet and calm; the people looked happy and 
pros)ierous, the little children were all at play. 

8lie never saw the sunlit streets, or heard the sound of the chil- 
dren at their play; a strange idea had taken possession of her. She 
was wondering how, a condemned criminal walks from his cell to 
the scaffold; how short the wniy must seem to him, with ‘death at 
the end; how his eyes must linger on thedaikened walls, on the living 
faces near him, so soon— oh, Ilea ven, so soon— to pass from before 
him forever. She felt like that now; she was walking to her doom. 
Wliat matter the sunshine and the cheerful sounds? there was death 
at the end; for it would be death to stand before him and accuse 
him— to hear him, perhaps, repudiate her— perhaps deny all knowl- 
edge of her; and, if he did not do that, to curse her for coming. 
There could never be death 'for her worse than this, the slaying of 
her love. 


* i > cs - 

184 HETWEEK TWO LOVES. 

On, with quick steps that never failered. There in the distance 
she saw tlie iron railings against which she leaned that day in her 
agony when she first saw Lady May; the day and hour on which 
the hand of death had seized her. On, wuth a courage that grew 
greater with every step. She was going to seek for justice, not 
only for herself, but for her little child in far-off France; the child 
who had never known a father’s love or a father’s care. And there 
were tears in her eyes, tears raining down her face, tears burning 
her where they tell. Tears! She raised her head proudly. She 
had not known that she was weeping; it must have been with think- 
ing of her little one, who had no one to love him but his mother. 

“ 1 will not face my enemies with tears on my face,” said Daisy. 
It had come to that "at last; the husband she had loved so dearly, 
whom she had worshiped with all the love of her girlish heart, was 
her enemy. They should never see that she had been weeping. She 
would appear before them grand and stately as the proud lady who 
had won her husband’s heart; she had her own dignity to maintain 
— she was a true wife, and she was mother of the heir of East wold. 
It was for those who iiad injured her, to give way to fear and to 
yield— not herself. She turned aside for a few minutes, that the 
wind might efface all traces of her tears. 

‘‘ I shall hate myself if 1 cry,” she said. ” 1 want justice, not 
pity.” 

So she stood for some few minutes. 

“Iwish,” she thought, ‘‘that 1 could put all my tears safely 
away, to be quite sure that none will disgrace me.” 

Then when her cold, proud calm had returned, she walked to- 
ward the house. When she had rang the bell, and knew that her 
admittance was quite certain, her heait beat painful^" fast; her face 
lost some of its color, but she would not give in. 

” I have to face my enemies,” she said. ” I have come here for 
justice, not tor pity.” 

A tall footman opened the door, and bowed respectfully when he 
saw the beautiful, fair-haired woman in the black dress. 

” 1 want to see Lady Trevlyn,” said Daisy, in a firm voice. ” 1 
know that she is at home.’ 

“ Her ladyship is at home, but she is engaged,” was the reply. 

” Yes,” said Daisy; ” Sir Clinton Adair is here— 1 have to meet 
him here.” 

” 1 will tell my lady,” said the man. 

But Daisy, admitted once into the hall, placed a couple of sov- 
ereigns into his hand. 

1 do not want you to announce me,” she said; “I want you 
simply to show me the door of the room where Lady May is. I 
know Sir Clinton well— you need have no fear.” 

” It is a very unusual thing to do,” said the man. ” My lady may 
be displeased.” 

“ iSto,” replied Daisy, still carelessly, ‘‘ not with you, 1 can prom- 
ise you— not with you. Will you do it for me?” 

” If you will take the blame,” said the servant. 

” There will be no blame,” she replied. “I will undertake to 
answer for it that neither Sir Clinton nor Lady Trevlyn will ever ask 
who opened the door for me,” 


BfiTWETUK TWO LOVES. 


185 


He hesitated for one minute, and he looked scrutinizingly at tile 
beautitul, fair-haired lady whose black velvet dress was so rich and 
tasteful. She looked like a perfect lady ; there was nothing ill-bred, 
nothing outre about her; then she had lovely blue eyes, and they 
were looking very imploringly at him. He was but a mortal man. 

“ Pray forgive me, madamV’ he said. “ Lady Trevlyn* is very 
particular. I had orders to say that her ladyship was not at home.” 

“ 1 know,” interrupted Daisy, “ but 1 am quite sure that she 
would be at home to me if she knew that 1 was here.” 

It angered her to hear that her beautitul rival appropriated her 
husband so entirely; evidently she would allow of no iulerruplion 
when Sir Clinton was with her. That only made her more deter- 
mined. Slie looked at the footman with an irresistible smile. 

” 1 am a relative of Sir Clinton Adair’s, and I have come some 
distance to see him. 1 will take care that you are held blameless. 
1 pray you to show me the room.” 

Tlie man bowed. 

“Her ladyship is in the drawing-room,” he said; “ that is the 
door at the end of the hall; shall 1 open it for you?” 

“No,” said Daisy, “ 1 prefer to open it myself; you need not fear 
the least in the world.” 

She smiled so carelessly that the man was reassured. It was a 
most unusual thing to ask — an unusual thing to do. There could 
be no harm in it; she was a relative of Sir Clinton — perhaps she 
wanted to give him a sui prise. 

There was one thing he could do, and. not being overburdened 
with conscience, he decided upon doing it; he could go out of the 
way, and, it any inquiries were made as to who opened the door, no 
one saw him do it, and he could be silent. 

“ She is a lovely woman,” he said to himself; “ but 1 da not re- 
member to have seen her face among any of our people.” 

In the meantime Daisy had opened the door. 


CHAPTER XLIX. 

SIR Clinton’s confession. 

Daisy had opened the door gently. With one keen, comprehen- 
sive glance she took in the whole of the scene before her. It w'as 
a small, pretty room, this morning-room of Lady IMay, with long, 
low windows that opened on to a narrow lawn, where tlowers 
seemed to bloom by magic all the year round. At the window she 
saw two figures— those of her husband and Lady May— her husband, 
standing with a troubled look on his face, yet with something al- 
most approaching adoration in the eyes that rested on the lovely up- 
turned face. One jeweled hand rested on his shoulder. She had 
evidently been talking to him earnestly. At the sound' of the open 
door they both turned round. Lady May looked in wonder id the 
beautiful, fair-haired woman standing there with an angry light in 
her eyes. 

Sir Clinton uttered one low cry. They heard him say, “My 
God!” then take one step forward. 


186 


BETWEEN TWO LOVES. 


“ Daisy!” he cried, ” what, in Heaven’s name, hrinc^s 3^11 here?” 

Lady May looked on in wonder that was almost alarm. Who was 
this? vShe advanced to speak to her, and Daisy looked at the tall, 
beaulihil, stately girl, wliose rich dress swept the lloor, and whose 
golden hair shone like an aureole. 

” Do’ 3^011 want me?” she asked, ” I am Lady Trevlyn.” 

” Yes,” said Daisy, ” 1 wished to speak to you.” 

‘‘ Daisy’,” cried Sir Clinton, ” what does this mean? AVhy have 
you followed me here?” 

“ To seek justice,” she replied — ‘‘ justice, not pity, not indulgence 
— 1 want justice!” 

Lady May looked from one to the other in w’onder. Who w'as 
this who dared to speak so to Sii Clinton — who dared to address him 
in these terms? Then she looked at her lover, lie had grown 
ghastly pale — so pale that she was alarmed for hi|ri. Who was she? 
What did it mean? She saw that he tried to speak, but all sound 
died on his lips — nothing escaped them. Then J^ady ]\Iay spoke 
again, and her clear voice fell so distinctly on their ears that both 
looked toward her. 

” You wanted me,” she said. “ 1 am at your service — 1 do not 
remember you,” 

‘‘You have never seen me,” said Daisy. ‘‘ 1 am a stranger 
to you— 3 mu know my husband well. 1 am Lady Adair.” 

No word from the wretched man, 

Ijady jVIay looked up with a sudden gleam of anger in her face. 

‘‘ Lady Adair!” she repeated. ‘‘ Pardon me, are you sure there 
is no mistake?” 

‘‘ 1 am quite sure,” replied Daisy; ” and my husband. Sir Clin- 
ton, does not deny it. Ask him if 3 mu do not believe me.” 

‘‘ 1 do not believe you,” said Lady May. ” 1 wmuld not believe 
you on your oath,” 

‘‘ Appeal to Sir Clinton,’' said Daisy. 

The 3 ’ both turned to him at the same moment. 

‘‘ Caro,” said Daisy, ‘‘ speak— am 1 your wife or notr” 

‘‘ Clinton,” said Lady May, ” tell me if this be true?” 

He flung up his arms with a bitter cry, then, laying them on the 
table, hid his face in them, and silence fell over ah three. 

Those two fair women watched each other— the beautiful, fair 
haired Daisy with an angry flush on her face, Lady ]\Iay calm as a 
liigh-bred, imperial queen. They seemed, as it were, each to ciiti- 
cise the other — to take in the details of each other’s beauty. Tlien 
Lady Ma 3 ^ with a cold, polished smile, said: 

‘‘ \ oil see, he does not own it. ” 

Daisy replied: 

‘‘ He does not deny it.” 

‘‘ 1 will believe,” said Lady May, ‘‘ that you have gone mad. 1 
will believe that 3^11 are wicked, false, designing— that the whole 
world is mad— but 1 will never believe one word against the honor 
and loyalty ot Sir Clinton Adair.” 

*' And 1,” said Daisy, ‘ believe in Heaven, but 1 have little faith 
in man now— in Sir Clinton Adair. 1 am his wife; he does not 
deny it.” 


BETWEEN TWO LOA'EB. 1S7 

Then the unhappy man stood up; he stretched out imploring: 
hands to Lady IMay. 

“ 1 dare not ask you to forgive me/’ he said; “ my sin is bej^ond 
all pardon; ] have no excuse to offer.” 

She looked with her clear e 3 ^es into the very depths ot his. 

“ I will lake no other w^ord than yours, Clinton,” she said. “ Is 
what this ladj?^ urges true/’ 

“ STes,” he replied; and again a terrible silence came over them. 

” True!” saia Lady May, at last—” true! You have been here, 
thought by all^ to be my lover, yet you were married all the time. 
Oh, Clinton, it can not be true! 1 would sooner believe Heaven 
false, myself mad, than you disloyal. It can not be true!” 

” it is true, my darling,” said Sir Clinton. 

Daisy looked up with an angry face. 

” My husband has no right to call you darling. Lady Tievlyn,” 
she said. ” He belongs to me, not to you.” 

” You are right,” said the beaulifui girt, calmly. ” True, Clin- 
ton— did you say that it w'as really true?” 

” Heaven help us. May, it is true! I am a coward— a traitor. 1 
hate myself, 1 loathe myself. 1 — yes, it is true.” 

Tlien, without a word. Lady May turned from them. She walked 
back to the window, where so lately she had stood in all trust and 
loving faith. Perhaps no woman ever passed through such anguish 
as overpowered her then. Sir Clinton had bowed his white face 
again, and hidden it with his hands. Daisy stood erect and defiant, 
but the pride and anger were dying out of her face as she saw the 
misery of Lady May. 

The beautiful heiress, the flattered, courted woman, she who had 
refused some of the noblest men in England — the lovely Lady May 
—stood silent, enduring pain and anguish more bitter than falls to 
the lot of women— more bitter than death. 

A commonplace w^oman would have given him up to his fate— 
would have made common cause against him — would have heaped 
reproaches and insults on him — would have taunted him. She did 
none of these things. His perfidy shocked her; the knowledge of 
his deceit grieved her; but, far above all selfish pain, far above all 
thought of vengeance, soared the high and lofty love of lier life. 
She iiad plenty of cause to turn round and heap hitler words upon 
him, plent}'’ of right to retaliate on him, but he was the lover of her 
girlhood, crushed with the sense of his misery, beaten down, hiimili- 
alcd, and disgraced. She was sorry for herself, more sorry by far 
for him. She could understand all now — his care-worn face, his 
haggaid, sorrowful expression, his constant depression— the reason 
why he liad hovered round her, yet had never spoken to her of love; 
and then she remembered that, although he had returned to Eng- 
land, it was not he who had sought her, but she W'ho liad gone to 
him — who had knelt at his feet, clasping her white arms round him, 
calling him by every loving name she could remember; it was she 
who had wooed him. It might be that when he returned to Eng- 
land he had no thought of se^eing her— he had, perhaps, intended to 
avoid her. She remembered how^ olleu he had tried to speak to her 
ot that past, and she had steadily refused to listen to him. All these 
w^ere miserable excuses for such a sin—miserable, spurious excuses, 


188 


BETWEEN TWO LOVES. 


but they were true. Her heart went out to him in great, boundless 
pity; lier love seemed to leave the region ot selt and go into some- 
thing hi^^her and better; a great sense of kindness came over her. 
After all, she thought, it was her own fault. lie had always loved 
her better than life itself; her coquetry had driven him from her, 
and she had wooed him back. The past returned to her in vivid 
colors, and she was just enough to own that the greater part of the 
wrong lay with herself. 81ie rose into heroism then — that flattered, 
courted, lovely lady— she forgot herself to think of him — she lost 
sight of her own anguish in his. She left her standing-place by the 
window and went up to him. She held out her hands to him. 

“ Clinton,” she said, calmly, ” this is my fault, not yours.” 

He looked up at her with wild, burning eyes. 

‘‘ Oh, my darling!” he cried. 

” Hush!” she said, gently; ” you must not use such words to me 
— they belong to your wife. Clinton, it is my fault. Now, before 
the evil grows greater, let us remedy it.” 

She laid her hand for one half minute on the handsome head, 
bent in such humble humiliation before her, and all tlie love of her 
heart and soul seemed to go out to him in that one touch. 

” Clinton, look up; let us remedy the evil. Remembei, 1 sought 
you — you did not seek me. 1 will speak to Lady Adair.” 

He looked at the noble, beautiful face with unutterable anguish; 
he tried to speak to her; but he could frame no words. 

Then Lady May went to Daisy. She held out her hands to her 
in kindly greeting. 

” Let us help him. Lady Adair,” she said; ” he is in great dis- 
tress,” 

Daisy’s pride and anger had melted away; they had never been 
very strong; they gave place now to infinite pity and infinite love. 

” 1 have no wish to be hard— to be unkind,” she said; ” but 1 
must have justice— justice for myself and my little child,” 

Lady May recanted for half a minute; a spasm of pain passed 
ovei her face. 

” A child!” she said. ” Have 3’-ou a little child, Lady Adair?” 

” Yes,” replied Daisy, ” I have a lovely little boy; but Sir Clin- 
ton does not love him; he does not love me — he loves nothing in 
the wide world but you, and it is not just, it is not fair.” 

^ ” You are quite right,” said Lady May; “ it is not just nor fair. 
You shall have full justice, Lady Adair.” 

She bravely trampled her own pains, her wounded love, her dis- 
may and horror, under her feet, resolving to think only of him, 
and to do him good. She must, she knew, conciliate this beautiful, 
fair-haired woman before her. 

“We must help him,” she said, aloud; “he is very unliappy, 
and he has suffered much.” 

“ He is very unhappy because he has married me,” said Daisy, 
simply. ” 1 can not help it; I can not imagine why he did it. It 
seems to me that he has always loved you.” 

“He has loved me very much,” said Lady i\lay. with equal 
frankness. “ What was the pretty name 1 heard your husband ” — 
her voice faltered over the wmrds— “ I heard yoiir husband,” she 
repeated, firmly, “ call you by? AVas it Daisy?” 


BETWEEN TWO LOVES. 


1S9 


“ Yes,” replied Lady Adair, “ niy name is Daisy.” 

” Then, Daisy.” said Lady ]\Iay, “ we must 'ne friends, not foe.s. 
Will you not come with me where 1 can talk to you? 1 have nuioh 
to sav to you. Come away from Sir Clinton, where we can talk 
about him at our ease— that we can not do in his presence.” 

” 1 will go anyw'here with you,” said Daisy. 

Her heart began to warm to this beautiful, high-bred woman, 
whose voice was like sweetest music. 

She went up to her husband and laid her hand on his arm. 

” Caro,” she said, ” you are not angry with me?” 

” No,” he replied, in a low voice; ” perhaps it is better so. 1 am 
not angry, Daisy. Heaven knows there is no room in my heart for 
anything but shame.” 

Without another word, the two ladies quitted the room together, 
leaving him to his thoughts. 


CHAPTER L. 

THE TWO LOVES. 

They walked in silence across the hall; then Lady May turned, 
with a smile, to Daisy. 

“ We will go to the drawing room,” she said; “ there is no one 
at home to-day but myself. We can talk uninterrupte'dly there.” 

Then Daisy saw that she must have suffered terribly, for the color 
had died from her beautiful face, leaving it pale as death. 

They entered the beautiful drawing-room. The familiar asifect 
of the room, where she bad spent so man}'^ happy hours with Hie 
man whom she believed to be her lover, for one minute seetned to 
overcome Lady May; she battled hard with the faintness that op- 
pressed her. 

There would be plenty of time, she thought, to bear her pain 
when all hope of helping him was over. 

She must wait until then. She put it from her resolutelj^; she 
would not look it in the face. Time enough for it during the long 
years that stretched out hopelessly before her. 

She closed the door carefully; then turned, with a faint smile on 
her colorless face, to DaisjL 

“ We both love Sir Clinton,” she said; “ w'e love him too much 
to do anything that would injure him; we both desire his benefit — 
nothing else; so, Daisy, shall you ana 1 be friends?” 

She came near Lady Adair as she spoke, with a charming, caress- 
ing smile; but Daisy shrunk back. 

*‘It is very hard,” she said, frankly, “to be friends with one 
whom 5 mur husband loves better than yourself.” 

“ Hear me, Daisy,” pleaded Lady May. They were standing 
together then, side by side, these two women who both loved the 
same man — Lady May imperially lovely in her calm, high-bred 
style; Lady Adair beautiful, restless, and agitated. “ Hear me, 
Daisy; you must not — you shall not judge until tou hear all.” 

Daisy looked up at her; it seemed so natural for her to command. 
The lovely face seemed made to be reverenced. 


190 


BETWEEN TWO LOVES. 


“ 1 do not wonder,” said Dais.y, slowly, “ that he loves you bel- 
ter than me; jmii arc a thousand times more beaiititul.” 

” 1 do not think so. nor do 1 think that he loves me so much the 
best. Daisy, shall we be Iriends?” 

“ 1 have never thought of being friends with you,” she replied. 
“ How can 1? You have won my husband’s heart from me; 1 do 
not see how 1 can be your friend; he thinks of nothing but Lady 
May.” 

” You must be just to me, Daisy; remember that 1 did not know 
he was your husband. 1 have no desire to excuse myself; but re- 
member that 1 want to tell you all about my— my friendship for 
your husband; but 1 can not do so unless you promise that we shall 
be friends.” 

Dais}'- did not seem willing, and an expression of pain came over 
the beautiful face of Lady May. 

” Daisy,” she said pleadingly, ” you will not surely refuse me— 1, 
who am only anxious for your husband’s sake and yours to be of 
use to you.” 

But Daisy had hardly studied the elegancies of life; the idea of 
veiling any unpleasant truth did not occur to her. 

” 1 do not see,” she replied, honestly, ” how 5^11 can expect me to 
be what you call Iriends, Lady Trevlyn. It was for you that my 
husband left me, because he longed to sec your face. 1 remember 
the words— he w'as ‘ weary, weary, waiting for the i\ray.’ 1 un- 
derstand it all by instinct, as it were. He would be glad if 1 were 
dead, that he might be free; and if I could, 1 would die.” 

” To leave your little child?” 

“Do you think,” asked Daisy, with sudden passion, ” that my 
child is a source of anything but jjain to me? He has In’s father’s 
eyes. Lady Trevlyn, and those eyes, so full of love tor you, have 
never looked with an} thing but indifference at me. He has his 
father’s lips, and 1 never touch them but that 1 remember my hus- 
band never voluntarily caressed me in his life.” 

Lady May knew' it w'as w'rong; hut it was almost impossible to 
help feeling some trifling degree of pleasure at hearing this — it was 
some little halm to her outraged pride. Daisy went on eagerly: 

” I love my little boy, but 1 have always to remember that liq bas 
no father’s love. Ah, Lady Trevlyn, talk of hardships! 1 thought 
my heart wmuld have broken when 1 first saw my husband h)ok at 
my child. There was no love in his eyes, no pleasure in his'face. ” 
Poor child!” said Lady May, softly ; ” poor mother! itw'asvcry 
hard for you.” 

That little touch of sympathy did more than all her pleading. 
Tears w^ere in Daisy’s eyes— Daisy wdio intended to be so proud and 
calm. 

” 1 repeal,” she said, ” that, it 1 could, 1 w'ould gladly die; my 
only regret is that 1 can not, 11 1 could go back to Fiance, and 
just lake my boy in my arms, and lie down willi him to die!” 

” V oil are youiii^o be so luopeless, Daisy,” said J .ady i\Iay. 

” Young in years; but the wite of a husband who loves anolher 
woman does not measure her life by years. It stems to me that f 
have lived filly iu one,” 


. BETWEEN TWO LOVES. 101 

“ Beraiise you have not been happy. Now, tell me, Daisy, are 
yon willing lobe frieiuls?” 

“ 1 tlu not think so," was the candid reply. 

“ 1 read a story once, Daisy, of two Avomen who loved one man — 
he was a tiiousaud times more guilty than Sir Clinton. lie loved 
his wife, then quarreled with her; after that he went and left her; 
he married another woman then, and the two met. They did not 
punish him— they took revenge. The second rvife had a child. 1 
remember the picture where they both— these two injured women— 
sat loving the child. Oh, Daisy, Daisy! think of the love and for- 
bearance there, the pity, the generosity— think of it! Should you 
and 1 quarrel after that?" 

Daisy raised her sweet, sad eyes to Lady May’s face. 

"If," she said, slowly— " if I died, l^ady Trevlyn, should you 
hate my child?" 

Lady INI ay looked at her eagerly. 

" Rate your child, Daisy— Sir Clinton’s little son! What do 3 ’ou 
think of me? No, If ^mu died— and 1 pray Heaven with all my 
heart that you may live, dear— but il you died, 1 would take your 
child to my heart as though he were my own." 

Daisy’s face soften,gd as she heard the words. 

" Would 3 'ou? Tin'll you are very good, Lady Trevlyn.” 

"Daisy," said Lady May, " ,you have had a hard life, cruelly 
hanl. Let me teach you something, dear — do not turn your face 
from me — let me teach you to believe in nobility of nature, in gen- 
erosity of heart, in loyalty and good faith. The world calls us ri- 
vals, 1 suppose, although a wife can have no rival!— her place must 
be her husband’s heart; we should be called rivals, 1 suppose, be- 
cause we have both loved the same man. Now, across this bridge 
of rivalry, 1 offer you, an all love, and truth, and honor, my hand, 
my friendship. Will ,you accept it?" 

" 1 would so much rather not,” said Daisy. " If 1 touch your 
hand, I should be comirelled to keep my v/oid, and like you. Row 
can 1 , when my husband likes you best?" 

An expression of deep pain came over Lady IMay’s face. 

"Poor child!" she said, gently; "it has been hard for 3 mu, 1 
respect you. Daisy, more for 3 'our refusal than if you had promised, 
and their failed to keep your rvord, R you will not be friends with 
mejitill 1 will trust 3 mu, Daisy. 1 will tell you my story and 3 'our 
husband's, and then 3^11 will ree that there are excuses for him 
more powerful than any I can offer. Give me your hand, dear; let 
it lie so in mine. The woman who loved Sir Clinton years ago w'ill 
not forget that she is speaking to Sir Clinton’s wife. 1 knew 3 ^ 111 - 
husband years ago, when 1 was a girl, only seventeen or eighteen; 
he was a handsome man— ah, Dais 3 \ so different to what he is now, 
so different! — handsome, eager, full of life and animation. I had 
no other love, and never shall have. We loved each other very 
dearly, and we Avere engaged to be married then." 

Lady May told the incidents of their quarrel and separation; she 
did not spare herself in the least; she told the truth frankly, as it 
had liappened. 

" Re wmiit away from me," she said; "and Avhen 1 asked him 
afterward Avhere he Aveut, he said he had gone mad.’^ 


15RTWEEN T^VO J.OVES. 


102 


How well D.iisy remembered it — tlie great sorrow that had driven 
him mad, that had driven him out into the woods, where she had 
found him, senseless and halt dead. She interrupted Lady May 
eagerly. 

“ I know,” she cried; ” it was then that 1 found him.” 

” Tell me your story now,” said Lady May; and Daisy told it — 
how she had learned to love him in his sickness and dependence, and 
how it seemed to her that when he was going she must die; then of 
her proud happiness when he asked her to be his^ wife; of their 
home abroad, and the gradual way in which she arrived at the con- 
clusion that he did not love her. ^ 

” Did he not love you, Daisy?” asked Lady May. 

” IS^o,” re]-)lied Daisy. ” Looking back upon our life together, I 
feel perfectly sure that he had never even the least affection tor 
me.” 


” Then,” said Lady Ma.y, ” why did he marry you?” 

” That is my puzzle,” replied Daisy, eagerly. ” Why, 1 had no 
money; my motiier was a poor woman who worked hard tor her 
living: 1 had no accomplishments, no beauty; he aid not love me — 
why did he marry me?” 

‘‘You must have been pretty, Daisy, in a: fair, sweet, child-Jike 
fashion. 1 can laucy what you were like two or three years ago. 
]Sow, 1 want to tell you what you ought, in justice to your husband, 
know. Yb>u tell me that he grew tired of his life in France, and 
came over here?” 

” Y’es,” said Daisy, sadly; ” and 1 was almost happy until then. ” 

‘‘I had done wrong,” said Lady May, "and 1 wanted to lell 
him so. Y'ou will not be angry with me, dear; but 1 found out 
how dearly 1 loved him alter he had goiffe away. ] did all 1 could 
to liiid out where he was, but 1 could not. I resolved to wait until 
he returned, no matter how many years he might be absent, and 
then beg his pardon, ask him to forgive my coquetry, and restore 
to me what 1 had lost. 1 made that resolve, you see — not Sir Clin- 
ton. 

” 1 found out from the papers when he returned, and where he 
was. 1 went to him, and found him alone. Daisy, 1 knelt at his 
feet, 1 w'ould not leave him until he had pardoned me. Daisy, do 
not be hard upon him; remember how he loved me, how pledged 1 
was to see him, how 1 pra5md, persuaded, pleaded; but, now that 1 
come to think it calmly over, there was something strange in his 
manner from the first. He was so changed that, at limes, 1 thought 
he had ceased to love me; he was so reserved, so unlike himself, 
that very often 1 was on the point of quarreling with him again.” 

” But you never did?” interrupted Daisy, 

” No, 1 never did, because I tried to be patient. 1 reminded my- 
self that he had suffered greatly on my account, and that the suffer- 
ing had deranged him, Now I see it all, Daisy— he could not be 
kinder to me because he never forgot you, his wite. ” 

" Do you really think that?” asked Daisy, eagerly. 

"lam quite sure ot it,” replied Lady May, ” and 1 will tell you 


BETWEE^r TWO LOVES. 


193 


* CBAPTER LI. 

“will you teach me.” 

“ 1 WILL tell you why,” repeated Lady May. “ All the days 
and hours that we have passed together since his return he has never 
once mentioned the word love or marriage to me. On that evening 
when 1 went to him 1 was too much bewildered and contused to 
notice this; 1 thought him altered, cold, reserved even then; hut 
that was nothing to the after time. lie came to Clifle House here 
the day following, when I was so happy to see him— so deligldcd; 
1 had so much to say to him — to tell him, and he was so cold, so 
silent. ‘ It is all my fault,’ I kept saying to myself—' all my fault; 1 
injured him, and he can not forget it.’ 1 remember now that he 
seemed embarrassed and uneasy when we asked him about his ab- 
sence. 1, thinking he had dreamed the time away, resolved upon 
asking him no more. Time went on; he, more than once, hinted 
that lie had something to tell me; little dreaming what it was, 1 re- 
fused to listen. 

“ 1 know all this is but a poor excuse, a wretched excuse; he 
ought to have told me honestly on that first evening when 1 was 
with him that he was married. It would have been a terrible blow 
at the time, but 1 should have outlived it, and I do not think it 
would have been worse than the constant pain since — pain that has 
never ceased, and never, never will; it has gone on so ever since, 
Daisy — 1, loving him, full ot pain and wonder at his silence; he, 
sad, distrait, reserved; I, wondering why he never said he loved me 
— why he never spoke of marriage to me; he, silent and unhappy. 
1 can fed for him, Daisy— he had loved me very much; he knew 
that 1 loved him, and he had not the courage to tell me that he was 
married. It was weak and cowardly of him— there is no excuse for 
him; even if the words had killed me, he was bound to have said 
them. ” 

“ What should you have done if he had told you?’’ she asked. 

“ 1 should have been terribly pained for a time — just for a time; 
but 1 should have knowui that it was all my own fault ; and, perhaps, 
in the years to come, we might have been friends — he, and you, and 
1. I should not have been angry; 1 drove him from me— 1 could 
not have blamed him.’’ 

“ He should have told you,” said Daisy, musingly. 

“ Aes; and then as the time went on it became more difficult. 1 
can imagine that, when he first saw me, he did not care to dampen 
my joy by telling me, an:l that every hour which passed made it 
more difficult. 1 have wondered at him, my friend who lives with 
me wcmders at him— every one in the wide world wonders that we 
have neither renewed our engagement nor married.” 

” Does no one suspect that he is married?” asked Daisy. 

“ No,” replied Lady May. “ 1 am sure not; the world wonders 
when the event will take place, but no one doubts but that, in the 
end, we are sure to marry— every one expects it.” 



194 


BETWEEN TWO LOVES. 


“ And has be been visiling you all this time?” asked Daisy. 

” Yes,” was the reluctant reply; ” but 1 could swear to you, 
Lady Adair, were an oath necessary, that he lias never once spoken 
to me ot love or marriage, lie has always seemed more or less un- 
happy, and 1 have tried to cheer him— that has been the chief part 
ot our intercourse, 1 have been sorry for him, and touched by his 
depression. Y'ou believe me. Lady Adair?” 

” Y^es,” replied Daisy, ‘‘ J believe you.” 

” And now will you refuse to be friends with me?” 

“No,” said Daisy, shyly. ”1 will be your friend. Lady Trev- 
lyn.” 

The two beautiful women embraced each other. Then Ladv May- 
said : 

” The tie between us shall be the welfare of the man we have 
both loved. Ah, Daisy! 1 may be a great heiress, but you have tlie 
best of it. Be is your husband, dear, not mine.”' 

‘‘ Y"et you can aflord to be generous,” said Daisy; ” he loves ymu 
and not me.” 

But Lady May shook her head gravely. 

” It would be fake— it would be mere affectation for me to deny 
that Jie loves me, but 3^11 are his wife, dear, and men generally 
love their own wives in the end. Then you have a little child. 
Think what that means, lie may seem indifferent to it now that 
this trouble ot his youth is upon him; soon he will begin to remem- 
ber that this little child is the heir of his name, the inheritor ot his 
titles and estates. He will soon be keenly, quickly, passionately 
alive to the child’s interest, and, through the child, to yours.” 

‘‘ It may be so,” said Daisy, meekly. 

” It wiil be so; and, Daisy— 1 like your name so much— Daisy, 
if you would but let me advise you just a little, 1 could teach ymu 
how to win your husband’s love forever.” 

1 ought not to require teaching foi that,” said Daisy. 

“ But 1 understand him,” pleaded Lady May. ” 1 have known 
him so long.” 

” I will not be outdone in generosity.” said Daisy. ” AVill you 
teach me. Lady May?” 

” Go home,” said Lady May, ” and be generous with him. Speak 
to him as one noble soul speaks to another. Tell him that you 
have heard the whole story, and that while you blame him for the 
concealment, ymu pity him for his sufferings; add to that, that you 
leave him quite free, that you make no attempt to dictate his move- 
ments, but that ymu yourself return to France to-morrow.” Daisy 
looked half suspiciously at her. ” Nay, dear,” said Lady May, 
” trust me in all or none. 1 am advising you to do what, were I in 
your place, 1 should do myself. 1 understand him so well— at- 
tempt to dictate to him, and he will not like it; submit, and he will 
do, in the end, what 3 ’-ou wish.” 

“You seem to know him well,” said Daisy, half bitterly; but 
Lady May would not notice the bitterness. 

“ If you do as 1 advise 3 ^ 011 , Daisy,” she said, “ and return to 
France, first generously trusting your future in his hands, he will 
follow you in less than a week; it 3 mu reproach him, taunt him, 
watch him, 1 do not think that any ot us will ever see him again.” 


195 


BETWEEN TWO LOVES, 


** 1 will do just what you tell me,” said Daisy, humbly. 

” When you return to the room to him.” said Lady May, “go 
to him; put your arm round his neck; comfort him.” 

Her voice falteied, and, tor the first time, Daisy saw tears in her 
eyes. Suddenly the young wife remembered that she was not alone 
in her grief. What must not this lovely Lady May have suffered 
—she who had loved him so well? She took the white, jeweled 
hand in her own. 

“ 1 am very sorry that it has happened,” she said, “ sorry for 
it all.” 


“ He will suffer very much, Daisy; you must be patient with 
him,” she replied. “ Do not grow weary when you .see Him sad and 
sorrowful.” 

Daisy looked up at her quickly. 

“ Are you sending me back to France,” she asked, “ because you 
want to see him again? because you want to talk to him?” 

“If you think ti.at,” said Lady May, quickly, “do not go; I 
have but one code of honor; it does not include false speaking.” 

“ Forgive me,” said Daisy. “ I think, after all 1 have endured, 
that 1 should be suspicious even of an angel.” 

“ You shall not be suspicious of me.” raid Lady May, with a 
faint, sad smile. “ 1 was just going to tell you that 1 shall send a 
message by you to your husband — a message of farewell; and that, 
after this, 1 shall never see him again.” 

Daisy looked up incredulously. 

“ Never see him again! 1 thought that you said you would be 
our friend?” 


“Not now; if 1 had known at first of this marriage, it would 
have been different; now there is nothing for us but eternal separa- 
tion.” 

“ But why?” asked Daisy; “ I do not understand.” 

Lady May smiled again. 

“ 1 will tell you wh 3 ^ Daisy. We are friends— 1 may trust you, 
you will not betray me; 1 say that 1 shall part eternally from your 
husband, and that, after to-day, 1 shall never see him again. You 
ask me why, Daisy, and 1 tell you frankly; 1 have loved your hus- 
band, more or less, all my life — that is, since 1 was old enough to 
love. 1 have given him the whole of my life, and now that 1 am to 
be parted from him — if 1 am to lose him, as 1 must do for my own 
sake, 1 would rather never see him again. 1 shall send him a little 
note by you, Daisy; you shall read it; and after that we shall live 
as strangers. ” 

“ The whole of the burden falls on you, then,” said Daisy, with 
bitter tears. 


“ Not the whole of it, Daisy; your husband will suffer, so will 
you; but it Will pass in time— the little one will help you to love 
each other, and as time passes you will grow happier. Daisy,” she 
'continued, earnestly, “ try to rouse your husband— do not let him 
sink into enervation and despair; rouse him, and bid him wmrk — 
bid him live for others now. Y"ou will be kind and generous, pa- 
tient and forbearing with him.” 

“ It is a great pity,” said Daisy, with simple earnestness. “ that 


19G ^ 


BETWEEN TWO LOVES. 


he (lid not marry you; you would have made him a better wife than 
Ido.” 

“Nay; you love him, Daisy; and love is a wonderful teacher.” 

Then Lady May took up a sheet of paper, and wrote on it: 

“ Dear Sir Clinton, — 1 have had a long conversation with 
Daisy, your wife, and we have explained to each other many things 
which puzzled us both. Dear Sir Clinton, this is my farewell to 
you. For all that is passed 1 take upon myself the blame. You 
committed one errcT— that of concealment; I, many others. We 
will bury that past, and forget it. If one who has been your true 
and loyal friend for many years may oiler advice, it would be this: 

“ Redeem the years gone by, atone to your wife for her suffeiing 
— love her and love your child; live in the consolation of knowing 
that you are doing your duty. It will be belter that we should not 
meet again. 1 ask you as a last favor to me — make your marriage 
known, you can advertise it in the papers without any date, but do 
not conceal it any longer; you have no need: your wife is a beau- 
tiful, graceful woman of whom you may well be proud. Take care 
of her. I shall never see you again, but no one will pray more 
heartily for vour welfare than your friend, 

“ May Trevlyn.” 

She said no word of her sorrow; of the sudden anguish that had 
smitten her, leaving her life all wrecked; of the sudden blow that 
had destroyed at once lier hope her love, her faith, the long dream 
of 3'ears, the blow that had destroyed her ideal and shown her that 
the idol she had long worshiped, was, after all, only of clay; not 
one word — there was a generous forbearance, a noble forgetfulness 
of self that smote him, when he read it, dumb. 

Slie gave the little note to Lady Adair. 

“ Read it, Daisy,” she said, “ and when you join 5’our husband, 
give it to him,” 

Daisy read it slowly and carefully, then looked at her rival, 
whose fast paling face showed that her strength and courage woulcl 
not hold out much longer. 

“ You are a noble woman. Lady IMay,” she said; “the world 
has not spoiled you. No wonder that my husband loves you.” 

Lady May placed her white hand on the trembling lips. 

“ Not another W’ord,” she said, “ abcut your husband’s loving me; 
he will love you for the future, and no one else. Go to him now, 
dear; give him that note, with my dear love, and farewell.” 

She paused one moment, then took Daisy’s hand in hers; there 
was a light, halt divine, on her face as she spoke. 

“Good-by, Daisy, may God bless you; the greatest, happiness 
that life will hold lor me now will be to hear that you are well and 
happy. Good-by.” 


BETWEEJ^ TWO LOVES. 


197 


CHAPTER Lll. 

“she has all your love.” 

Daisy watched the tall, stately figure disappear, and the tears 
blinded her eyes as she looked. She halt repented what she had 
done; yet it must have been done sooner or later; there must either 
have been a crime or a disclosure. Still she felt that it was hard 
tor Lady May. She had done no wrong; the one sin ot coquetry 
was not so great — she who had been flattered and teted all her life. 
She had thought no evil, and the love ot her life had been lavished 
on a man who was unworthy ot it— quite uuworlliy. Daisy no 
longer felt angry with Lady May. She was the injured, not the 
injurer. She telt only profound pity for her — the beautitul woman 
whose life was wrecked and ruined. She looked at the paper she 
held in her hands. 

“ 1 know how this story ought to end,” she said. “ 1 ought to 
die; my little child and 1 should die; Ihen he could marry Lady 
May, and they could live happily together ever alter; the only 
thing is, that stories never end as they should do.” 

Then, paper in hand she returned to the pretty morning-room, 
where they had left Sir Clinton to his miserable reflections. She 
opened the door noiselessly, and looked at him. He sat just where 
they left him, his face covered with his hands; and again, as Daisy 
looked at him, she felt like one smitten with death; the strange, 
gray pallor came over her face, the chill ran through her limbs — 
that terrible tremble which people say is caused by a person ^valking 
over what is to be your grave. Then she went up to him, and laid 
her hand on his shoulder. 

“ Caro,” she said, quietly, “ will you not speak to me?” 

He uncovered his face. Dear Heaven, how haggard and worn it 
was— how white, willi wild, vacant eyes! It was the face of a 
man who had been almost driven mad with pain. It seemed to 
change when he saw that it was Daisy. Perhaps he had expected 
to see Lady May. 

“ Daisy, is it you?” he said. “ My eyes are dim. You are come 
to upbraid me. Say wdiat you will.” 

But Daisy had learned a lesson from the sweetest ot women, 
from the kindest ot hearts— there was no upbraiding, no reproach. 
She hnelt down by his side, just as her rival had done long ago, 
and threw her arms round him. He looked surprised. Sir Clinton 
knew that women of Daisy’s class, as a rule, are apt to be shrill in 
their rrpbraiding and not very clioice irr their anger. He was 
startled. Daisy, laid her fair head on his shoulder. 

“ Why should 1 upbraid yoii, Caro? 1 am so sorry for you, ' 
dear, that, it giving my life would help you, 1 w^oukl cheertully lay 
it down. I have no ir|>braidings, no reproaches to make to you.” 

“1 deserve them, Daisy,” said her husband, disarmed by her 
meekness; “ 1 deserve them all, but 1 could not tell her, Daisy. I 
knew that 1 was a coward, a traitor, unworthy the name of gentle- 


BETWEEN T'WO LOVES. 


198 

man, but 1 could not do it, Daisy; my miserable tongue used to 
cleave to the root of my moulh, my miserable heart tailed me time 
after time. 1 could not tell her, she was so happy in her innocent 
joy, so pleased to see me, so delighted— ah, Daisy, 1 could not tell 
her; it would have seemed easier for me to have taken a hot iron 
and seared her beautiful face. 1 loved her so dearly, Daisy — 1 loved 
her so.’* 

That was hard to bear, but she had promised to be patient, to be 
courageous. She laid her hand gently on his. 

" Poor Caro!” she said, “ 1 am very sorry; it is all very sad.” 

Her patience seemed insensibly to cheer and encourage him. 

‘‘1 never intended to do wrong,” he said; ”1 had no such 
thought. 1 never intended to conceal rny marriage; such an idea 
never occurred to me when 1 came to England. You believe me, 
Daisy?” 

” Yes, 1 believe you, Caro; do not distress yourself by telling me 
anything about it. 1 am satisfied you meant no wrong.” 

But there seemed to him a relief in speaking. 

” 1 ought to have told her the first moment. I should have said, 
it is all too late, 1 am married, but 1 did not; and it has been a 
source of undying regret to me. After the first day had passed, 1 
could not; 1 was always deferring the evil houiv-putting off the 
disclosure, until it grew too late, and then, Daisy, 1 could not do it 
at all.” 

” 1 understand it, Caro,” she said. 

He spoke quite eagerly then. 

” Let me do her justice,” he said; ” let me do justice to myself. 
1 have not spoken to her of love or of marriage; our conversations, 
after that first one, have all been on indifferent subjects, Tuat does 
not excuse me. 1 did not talk to her of love, but 1 looked it; 1 did 
not talk to her of marriage, but 1 haunted her footsteps— 1 was 
never one minute away from her that 1 could spend with her by any 
possibility. There is no excuse for me ; 1 am a coward, a traitor. 
1 deserve the wmrst that can be said of me. 1 have no patience with 
myself; 1 loathe myself; but if was so hard, Daisy. Do not say 
that 1 am an unmanly man; do not say that 1 deserve contempt. 
You, whose life has been all peaceful, all serene, you can not tell 
what the terrible passions of a man’s love is. 1 declare that 1 am a 
strong man; 1 wmuld face a hundred foes— 1 am not boasting, 
Daisy; 1 would leap into the midst of devouring llaiues to save a 
human life. 1 am strong in body, in heart, and in mind, but that 
love mastered me. Heaven help a strong man whose soul is the 
seat of such torments! Calm, sweet Daisy, you know nothing of 
this terrible fire; it is all strange, all novel to you; 1 know no fire 
more terrible; think w^hat it was wEen it burned my honor and my 
conscience away. It was more powerful than death; it chained me 
captive, it bound me fast, hand and foot.” 

” Caro,” said honest Daisy, “ do you think, dear, it is quite right 
for you to tell me— your wife— of your love for another wmman?” 

Sir Clinton looked up in the greatest wonder. It was such a 
straightforward, sensible, honest question that he W’as slightly be- 
wildered. 

You know,” continued Daisy, ‘‘ that 1 am very sorry indeed 


BETWEEls TWO LOVES. 


199 

for you — that 1 feel all your pain and your sorrow as keenly as you 
feel it yourself; but 1 am your wife, Caro, and every word 1 hear 
of the love that you have given lo another w'oman is a sharp sword 
in my heart.” 

‘‘ Pardon me, Daisy; 1 will say no more.” 

“Yes, you must say more. 1 like you to tell me all your 
troubles; but 1 do not like to know that you have no love foi* me. 
Caro, 1 know your story now; it is a very sad one; but there is one 
thing In it I did not understand. Why, wdien all your heart belonged 
to Lady May, wliy did you marry me?” 

“1 thought she was married. You remember that once your 
motlier brought me papers from the market town? One of those 
papers told that Lady ]\lay Trevlyn was about to become Duchess 
of Rosecarn. It ivas over the Duke of Rosecarn that w^e quarreled, 
so that 1 felt sure it was true. 1 read the words, and they slew me 
as 1 read.” 

“ Then,” persisted Daisy, “ if you knew that— if you knew that 
you could never be happy again, why did you marry" me? That is 
the only part of your story 1 do not understand. All would have 
been well had you not married me. Why did you do it?” 

He looked into the s'lveet, sad face. What there was of manhood 
and chivalry in him rose up to shield her; he would never own that 
he had overheard her; he would never confess the truth; she must 
judge him as she would. 

“ Was it to revenge jmurself on Lady May?” she asked— “to 
prove your entire indifference to her? Did you sacrifice me so 
lightly, Caro?” 

“ No, it was not for that. 1 did like you, Daisy, very much. 1 
had a kindly, warm, true affection for you, and 1 thought that 1 
was stronger; 1 did not know that my love was so entirely master 
of me. You wonder why 1 kept my name a secret from you. It 
was not from any wish to deceive you; it was because you once, 
when I was ill, asked my name, and 1 told you Sir Clinton. You 
did not understand me, and called me Mr. Clifton. Daisy, 1 liked 
it well, because it seemed to cut me off from a past that was terrible 
to me. 1 said to myself then that 1 would drop my title — that I 
would be Mr. Clifton — that 1 would go away from England, and 
live a new life in which no one thing should remind me of the past. 
Then, Daisy, 1—1 wanted 3^011 as the companion of my flight; 1 
asked 3^11 to many me; 1 thought we should live abroad, and in 
time grow happ 3 '.” 

Her sweet, sad face brightened at the words. 

“ Then 3 mu did care for me just a little, Caro?” shesaid. “ You 
must have" done so, or you would not have said that 3 'ou wanted me 
to go with you — 3 uni must have liked me.” 

He would not have saddened her again for the whole wide wmrld. 

“ Most certainly 1 liked you, Daisy. Then we w^ent abroad, you 
and 1. Y^ou saw how 1 tried to forget the past, Daisy. 1 did, indeed 
— 1 w’ould read nothing, see nothing, hear nothing that could remind 
me of home— of England. 1 would read no papers; 1 wrote and 
received no letters. 1 meant to do my duty before God and man. 

1 w\a 9 an honest man then. A dreadful fev^r seized me at last — the 
restless longing to look on her face— the fever of love and of mad- 


BETWEEN TWO LOVES. 


200 

ness. 1 tliouglit, all blind and mad as 1 was — 1 thought that if 1 
could look once more on her face, rest, and content, and peace 
would come to me. 1 swear to you that 1 meant no wrong, only 
rest and peace— 1 asked no more. One look at her would bring it. 
So I resolved to look at her, to cool the lever that ran hot in my 
brain. 1 did not mean to speak to her, but when the level had lefi 
me, to return and live my life out with you.” 

She repressed every feeling of anger and jealousy; her voice was 
quite calm as she spoke. 

” Poor Caro! it was not wise to leave me, but you thought it al’ 
for the best.” 

‘‘Ah, Daisy, 1 had been mad before. 1 went mad ag&in. Far 
from cooling the fever, that one glance at her added fuel to the 
flame. You know the rest, and 1 have no excuse tor it. She is the 
most deeply injured, after all. ’ i 

‘‘ 1 do not know,” said Daisy, in that unutterably honest manner 
of hers. ‘‘ 1 think my agony the greatest, Caro. True, I am youi 
wife, but that is a small advantage— she has all your love. If we 
reckon injuries by the sufl;ering they inflict, then 1 have been the 
most injured, Caro, because 1 loved you and you did not love me. 
If you liad but been frank with me when you asked me to marry 
you — if you had only told me that 3 ’^our heait was dead, your love 
was dead, and that in seeking me as your wife you only sought a 
companion, it would have been better, Caro.” 

‘‘Yes, 1 own it, Daisy,” he replied. 

The young wife went on, with a courage that surprised herself: 

‘‘You have great faults, Caro. When 1 married 3 ’'Ou, 1 thought 
you were a great hero — a real hero, such as we read of in books; I 
could not see any faults in you at all; but noR' that 1 come to think 
over your character, 1 see glaring defects, and you should try to cure 
them.” 

Sir Clinton was so entirely taken by surprise that he could not 
speak; he was literally bewildered; this honest, sensible Daisy 
seemed to have changed places with him— the power and the inllii 
ence seemed to have left him and gone to her. If his sorrow hail 
been less, he would have smiled; as it was, he looked quietly at her. 

She nodded her fair head gravely. 

“ It is quite true,” she said, ‘‘ you are deficient in sound, clear 
judgment; you are too impressionable; 3^11 are easily influenced, 
easily led; and you are not so frank and sincere as you should be.” 

I Sir Clinton could only open his eyes and wonder tvhat the world 
was coming to. 


CHAPTER Llll. 

BETWEEN TWO LOVES. 

Then Daisy, thinking that she had quite suflicieully mingled 
tenderness and reproof, said to him: 

‘‘ ] have something for you, Caro. Lady May sent it.” 

She gave him the paper, and he read it through; his face could 
glow no whiter— the hand that held the later shook so that it iell 
to the ground. 


BETWEEN TWO LOVES. 


201 


Daisy raised it. 

“It is a noble letter,” she said~“ noble as herself; she gave it 
to me to read, Caro, before 1 brought it. She says that you and she 
\y'ill never meet again.” 

“1 suppose not,” said Sir Clinton, in a low voice; “it will be 
better so. I wish she would let me see her, if only once asrain, to 
bid her good-by. ” 

“ If she is wise, she will not,” said honest Daisy; “ if you saw 
her once, you would only w'ant to sec her again; there is no use ini 
it.” 1 

“ You are right, Daisy,” he said; “ after all, it is no use.” I 

“ You know, Caro,” she continued, “ the time has come now 
when we must look matters straight in the face. Unfortunately 1 
am liying, and unfortunately 1 am your wife. If 1 could free you 
by laying down my life, you know that 1 would do so; 1 can not, 
therefore you will have to bear with me. Y'ou must try to like me 
a little, though 1 am not to be compared to Lady May; but 1 love 
you very dearly, in spite of all that has past and gone; more dearly 
than you can imagine, quite as well as you love Lady May. 1 wull 
be very gentle, very submissive, but,” she added, with milve fear- 
lessness, “ 1 think that 1 shall speak my mind a little more plainly 
than 1 have done. 

“Then you see, Caro,” she continued, finding that her words began 
to impress him, “I am not the only one who depends upon you; 
have you quile forgotten our baby-boy? 1 told you be has your 
eyes, and,” added Dais}", with unconscious flattery, “ they are very 
beautiful eyes, too. lie has a mouth just like yours, too; I used to 
kiss it a thousand times, and try to think that it was yours.” 

She paused suddenly, and her face grew burning red; he could 
not resist the impulse that led him to lay his hand caressingly on 
her head. She loved him so well, this fair-haired, sweet-laced 
wife. 

“ You ought to love your own boy, Caro; he will be master of 
Eastwold some day, and tvho is to teach him to take his place in the 
world, if you do not? What am I to say to him in the years to 
come if he asks me, ‘ Where is my father?’ Can 1 say ‘ we parted 
because your father loved some one else, and not me?’ Y’ou would 
not so humiliate me before my own child.” 

“ Ko, 1 would not,” said Sir Clinton. 

Then Daisy rose from her seat. 

“ We have almost taken possession of Lady May’s house,” she said, 
still keeping back the passionate emotion that at times almost over- 
powered tier. “ Caro,” she said, gently, “I have not explained 
my presence here; will you not own that it is better 1 came?” 

Far better,” he replied, slowly. 

“1 came because 1 did not feel satisfied; 1 felt quite sure that 
there wjis a mystery in your life, and that 1 ought to know it; I 
knew that you would never tell me; the only thing was to find it 
out for myself. 1 left baby with my mother, and came here. Now 
1 will not intrude on you longer; remember what 1 say to you; it 
you can endure me— 1 will say more than that— it you will permit 
me, T. vill be your loving, true wife; whenever you want me and 
baby, you have but to speaK Ihe word; you have but to come to 


202 


BETWEEJ^ TWO LOVES. 


U8, or send for us, and we will come that moment. Now 1 will say 
good-by.” 

lie looked up quickly; already, in tbat one short interview, his 
estimate ot Daisy had greatly altered; he had looked upon her a# 
having no particiihir character or mina. lie saw that he wms mis- 
taken. She had some very decided charae.teristics; she was frank, 
tearless, stiaightforward, honest; he lelt, in some vague way, that 
she was superior to him. 

” Are you going, Daisy?” he asked. 

‘‘ Yes,” she replied. ‘‘ 1 have been away long enough.” 

She did not tell him how long. Dais}^ was growing worldly wioc; 
for her child’s sake no one should know that she had acted as a 
servant in his father’s house. She determined upon keeping that 
little episode in her life quite secret tiom every ope. 

He never thought to ask how long it was since she left France — 
perhaps he did not think of it. 

“1 shall go back to Leville,” she continued, “and when you 
want me you will know where to find me. Good-by, Caro!” 

Slie went back to him, always remembering Lady Way’s advice 
— she went back, and, bending down, kissed his forehead. 

” Good-by, my dear husband,” she said; ” there will be the 
warmest welcome for you when you choose to come.” 

He was too bewildered for speech; when he raised his eyes again 
she had quitted the room. He called ” Daisy,” but she did not hear 
him. 8he w^as gone, and between his two loves he was left alone. 
Nothing could possibly make his position a dignified one— he knev. 
that; therefore he thought the most sensible plan was to retrea... 
The house was all silent. He had heard the loud clang of the hrdl 
door, and he knew th£.t Daisy had gone. He would fain have asked 
for Lady May, but he dare not. He tried to distinguish the sounds 
in the house; he could not hear her light footsteps, or the rustle of 
her silken dress — all was silent and lonely. This was what his sin 
had brought upon him, this was the wretched result of his tolly and 
his blind, mad passion. Between two loves he had, as it were, lost 
both. Lad}'^ Maj-^ he would never see again — he knew how firmly 
she could keep her word— never again! while Daisy, his wile, had 
suddenly assumed a superiority over him that surprised him more 
than he had cared to own. 

Man is but mortal — the strongest man is barely proof against flat- 
tery, and, in spite of his blind infatuation for Lady May, he was 
just a little flattered to think that Daisy loved him so dearly after 
all. It is pleasant to be loved. The Daisy whom he had married 
iworshiped him, he knew; he had taken her worship very coolly — 
coolly as the sun takes the love of the sunflower; but this Daisy, 
this fair-haired, beautiful woman, who in the same instant had told 
him of her love for him and of the defects in his character, that was 
quite another person. She had suddenly developed into a woman 
tor whom he felt profound respect, a woman able to think and 
criticise. 

Besides this, she had a stronger claim on him— she was the 
mother of his child; the child who would one day be the master of 
Fastwold, and bear his name, and the honor of his house. He had 


liETWEEN" TWO LOYES. 203 

never thought much of that child before. Suddenly a sense of what 
he owed it came 07er him. 

Then Sir Clinton rose from his seat ; he had no right to remain 
longer in Lady May's house— the house his presence had darkened 
with a shadow that could never pass. lie stood for a few minutes 
at the door, looking round at the beaut ilul room wherein the hap- 
piest hopes of Ids lile had been spent. !Never again should he linger 
here with that beautiful face by his side, never again would he 
listen to the voice that had made the sweetest music on earth for 
him. 

lie passed out of the door, and went home. He was deeply, pro- 
foundly WTetched; yet, after all, there was something of relief — the 
worst had happened; the sword so long hanging over his head had 
fallen at last; the truth that he had not dared to tell had been told 
for him. Tiiere might be wretchedness and despair, but there was 
no suspense; it was all over — the worst had happened Lady May 
knew that he was married, and had bidden him good-by forever. 
There were no more anxious thoughts, no more gloomy brooding 
over a secret that he did not care to tell; for the first time for long, 
dreamy months he felt something like peace; it was all over, noth- 
ing more could happen; no more need to dread the postman’s knock, 
or the quick sound of footsteps; no more need to be always think- 
ing what might happen. It had all happened now. 

Lady May and himself were far apart as the north and south 
poles. He wondered why he suffered less this time than before — 
why he had this vague sense of relief on him— why thoughts of 
Daisy kept springing up side by side with regret for Lady May. 

There was some little consternation at Lifdule House— the house- 
keeper, iMrs Jordan, had suddenly left, no one knew w'hy or where- 
fore, only that she was gone; and the servants, with that love which 
distinguishes some of them, lost no time in telling Sir Clinton of the 
fact. At any other time it might have struck him; just now it did 
not; his mind was full of the startling scene he had just witnessed 
—the meeting between his two loves. He hardly thought of the 
event which had created such consternation in his household. 

“ Gone, is she? Then we must get some one else in her place. It 
does not matter much, for 1 do not intend remaining in London 
much longer.” 

That same evening he received a note, WTitten in the third person, 
telling him that Mrs. Jordan had suddenly been sent for to join her 
son in America. It so happened that Daisy’s secret never was 
known, and that was perhaps the only secret that she ever kept in 
her life. 

‘‘Going againl” said the servants, “YVhen would Sir Clinton 
marry and settle, like other men? It was dreary work, alw'ays go- 
ing and coming, and never seeming to know his owm mind. They 
had hoped for something belter this time.” 

At’tlitfe House there had been no comment on what had passed; 
no one asked who admitted Lady Adair; the servants there only 
knew that she had gone away first, and that some time afterward 
Sir Clinton Adair had quitted the house. But of the strange scene 
which Iiad taken place— of the fact that the two whom the world 


204 Between two loves. 

had so surely looked upon as lovers, had parted for all time — no 
oue had the least idea. 

Lady May gave orders that she should be denied to visitors for 
the rest of the day — lhai she was tired and would not see any oue. 
It was not considered strange, because 1113 ' Lady May often preferred 
spending half a day alone. No one was surprised, either, when she 
refused to lake dinner, ana asked for some tea to be sent to her 
room. She was greatl}*^ beloved by her servants, and, at the idea 
that her ladyship was suffering from headache, they kept great 
silence, hushed voices, hushed footsteps, until Miss Lockv^ood re- 
turned in the evening. She looked surprised at the darkened, silent 
house, 

“ Where is Lady Trevlyu?” slie asked, and was told that her 
ladyship was in her room, tired, and not disposed for visitors. Stilt 
more surprised, she continued: “ Sir Clinton Adair was to spend 
the day here— has he been?” 

“Yes, he had been, and gone earlier in the day.” Then Miss 
Lockwood felt sure that something had happened. 

“ There has been a loveis’ quarrel,” she thought; “ when will this 
state of things end?— when will they marry as sensible people should 
do, and put a stop to this disagreeable state ot things? 1 must go 
and see her. 1 shall advise her to marry at once,” and, full of this 
idea, Miss Lockwood went to Lady May’s room. 


CHAPTER LIV. 

“my he apt is BliOKEN.” 

It was twilight when Miss Lockwood rapped at Lady May’s 
door. At first there was no response; then Miss Lockwood said: 

“ May, wdl .you see me for a few minutes?” 

“ Yes; come in, dear. 1 did not know it was you,” said a voice, 
sweet and gentle as ever, but with all the ring and the music gone 
from it. The elder lady went in. The room was almost dark, and 
a sense of some misfortune, ot something chilling in the atmos- 
phere, struck Mias Lockwood forcibly. 

“ You are all in darkness, mj' dear,” she said; “ why not have 
the lamps lighted?” 

“ 1 do not require them,” was the languid reply. 

Miss Lockwood turned round briskly. 

“ Now that convinces me,” she said, “ that, from some cause or 
other, you are dull. I dread hearing any one say that they prefer 
darkness to light; it betrays, to my thinking, a morbid state of 
mind.” 

Never a word replied Lady May. 

“lam sorry that 1 w^ent out,” she continued, briskly. “ I should 
not have gone if 1 had thought that you would be alone l^nder- 
slood that Sir Clinton was to spend some part ot the day with^'ou.” 

The name fell in that silent room with a strange, ominous ring. 
Lady May uttered no w'ord. ^ 

“ Has he not been here?” she asked again. 

“ Yes,” was the brief reply. 


BETWEEK TWO LOVES, 


205 


** He did not remain, then?” said Miss Lockwood. 

” He stayed some time,” replied Lady May; and again the silence 
was so deep that the ticking of the jeweled watch on the table was 
distinctly heard. 

” May,” said Miss Lockwood, af ter a pause, ” have you quarreled 
with Sir Clinton?” 

“ No; 1 have not. 1 never quarrel with any one; why should I 
quarrel with him?” 

‘‘There is something wronsr,” thouglit Miss Lockwood, ‘‘and 
that something is worse than we have had yet.” 

She could not bear the thought of her young friend and beloved 
charge sitting there in the dark without a word. She took one of 
the little wax matches from the box, and, striking it quickly, she 
lighted the lamps before Lady May had time to hide her face or 
turn away. Full in the lamp-light its ghastly pallor was plainly to 
be seen. 

Miss Loekwood started back, with a cry. 

‘‘Great Heaven!” she exclaimed. “1 thought — oh, how you 
frightened me. May! I thought jmu were a ghost. So you are, the 
ghost of yourself. What has happened to you?” 

” To me, nothing,” she replied, slow'ly. 

‘‘ Then what has happened to any one else? May, May, surely 
you have not angered Sir Clinton again?” 

‘‘No; 1 have not,” replied the poor girl. ” 1 have not angered 
him, or quarreled with — but — ” 

‘‘ But what? My darling, do not torture me by suspense. Do 
you know what 1 came upstairs for?” 

‘‘ No,” replied Lady IMay, in the same dull tone; ‘‘ I do not.” 

‘‘ 1 came to urge you to put an end to all this^ and settle your 
wedding-day. Every one is asking me when it is to be; every one 
expresses surprise that you have w^aited so long, and wonders wiiat 
you have waited for. Of course it concerns no one but yourself; 
still, you can not prevent people from making remarks.” 

Then the words died suddenly on her lips, as she saw the white 
face and dim, sorrowful eyes. 

“May, my darling, tell me wdiat it is. J have been your friend, 
your confidant for many long ycais— do not refuse to trust me now. 
My heart breaks w^hen I look at you. 1 know it is something about 
Sir Clinton Adair— nothing else in the wide world has the pow’er to 
affect you so.” 

Then Lady May walked across the room to her friend. She bent 
her golden head until it drooped on that faithful breast; she clasped 
her white arms round the tall figure; a cry of exceeding bitterness 
came from her lips. 

” Bear with me,” she said; “ my heart is broken. Bear with me, 
1 have lost my love forever and ever. We shall never meet in this 
w'orjd again.” 

‘‘Then you have quarreled!” said Miss Lockwood, in great con- 
sternation. 

‘‘ No, it is wmrse than that — it is the worst which could have hap- 
pened. Can you not guess?” 

‘‘ Does he care about some one else, May?” she asked, in wonder. 


200 


BETWEEN TWO LOVES. 


“ No, it is worse even than that — and it is all my fault. Three 
people are made miserable lor life; and it is all my fault.” 

“ My dear,” said Miss LocUwood, calmly, ” 1 never was clever at 
guessing. 1 pray you to tell me what has happened How you 
tremble. May, ana your heart beats so fast — your hands are cold as 
death! What has he done to you, my child, my treasure?” 

” Do you remember,” said the girl, fainll}’’, ” when we read in 
the papers that he had returned home? 1 told you that 1 would 
lose no time in bejiging his forgiveness. You came to London with 
me, and 1 went to see him.” 

” I remember all about it. What then?” asked Miss Lockwood, 
impiitiently. 

” Even then, even then— Heaven help me!— he was married.” 

” Married!” cried Miss Lockwood. ” and never told you! Mar- 
ried! and let you make friends with him — kept such a secret as that 
from you! 1 can not believe it, May.” 

‘‘ It is true; he was married then. He read in some false paper or 
other that 1 was about to marry the Duke of Rosecarn, and, quite 
reckless of everything, he married the — the girl who had been kind 
to him during his long illness.” 

” 1 can not believe it. May. No man could be so base, so 
wicked—” 

‘‘ You must not call him wicked; he is not that. It was all my 
fault, you see.” 

“ Suiely,” cried Miss Lockwood, ‘‘you do not excuse him, do 
jmu, May?” 

” 1 can make allowances for him. 1 know how madly he loved 
me, and 1 know that my wMcked coquetry drove him mad. He did 
not return to England, as we thought, to see me. 1 do not think 
he meant to see me again. 1 souglit liim, you know,” she added, 
with quivering lips. ” We must never forget that 1 sought him 
then. He was pleased to see me, and the old love must haveawmke 
again more strongly than e^’er in bis heart. 1 gave him no time to 
tell me that night, and afterw’^ard, 1 think, he was ashamed or 
afraid.” 

” May,” cried Miss Lockwood, indignantly, ” do not excuse him; 
there is no excuse for him; there can be no pardon for him. 1 say 
such deception was a crime— not a fault, an error, or a sin — but a 
crime! Great Heavens! that you, a lady by instinct and refinement, 
a woman in tenderness and truth, that you should seek to excuse 
him— it is monstrous! 1 wish that he were here; he should have 
plain speaking that would startle him. You may call Sir Clinton 
what you like; 1 say he is a villain to have done this!” 

Siie stopped abruptly, for the girl, all pale and trembling, had 
started back, with a bitter cry. 

” If you ever say that again, it you ever say one word against 
him, jmu and 1 will part forever! He may have done wrong; but 
he was my first love, and he will be my last; I shall know no other, 
and 1 w’iil not hear one word against him — no, not one! Every 
word against him is a sword in my heart — do you know that?” 

‘‘ But, May, be reasonable. Such a cruel deception never was 
practiced on any creature; and on you, above all others, May — you, 
so generous and loying. Do you know that 1 really can not belieye 


BETWEEN TWO LOVES. 


207 

It? If the man was married, why did he not tell me, even if he did 
not like to tell you? There can be no excuse in the world for him, 
May, if it were another person, how much more keen your sense of 
right and wrong would be? What can you say in his favor?" 

‘‘ Nothing," replied Lady May: “ but if 1 can make neither ex- 
cuse nor apology for him, at least 1 can say that my love shall shield 
him from blame and reproach — shall be true to him in adversity as 
in prosperity." 

"Mayl" cried Miss Lockwood, in a voice of horror; "you can 
not talk about loving a married man." 

" No, 1 can not; you are quite right. After this day his name 
shall never pass my lips at all. 1 will not speak to him— 1 can not 
speak to him. We have parted, this day, forever!” 

" Quite right, too," said Miss Lockwood, iudignanlly. " He 
ought never to have returned. He ought either to have brought his 
wile with him, or to have told us about her at once. His wife! 
Heaven help us! 1 wonder that you have patience. 1 hope, 1 do 
hope. May, that you have given him a piece'of your mind." 

*■ 1 gave him my heart long ago; 1 suppose that my mind went 
with it. If you mean, did I scold or upbraid him — ah, no, dear; 
never a word!" 

"Then 1 wisii to Heaven that 1 had been here, that is all; he 
would have had plain truth in plain language. 1 have no patience 
with sophistry. May. I call a spade a spade, a crime a crime. I 
would not wrap up deceit like this and give it a fair name. It is a 
crime, May, to have deceived you — a cruel, wanton, wicked crime. 
And you liave parted with him forever? You have done well, -May. 
It was a fatal day on which you first saw him. 1 grieve that you 
loved him all the best years of your life: all the love of your heart 
has been given to him, and 1 repeat that it is terribly cruel. jMay, 
how did you learn this? Did he tell you himself?" 

" I would rather not answer the question," replied Lady ]\ray. 
"You are hard enough upon him now: if you knew the circum- 
stances of the case, you would be even harder.” 

But afterward, when Miss Lockwood came to make inquiries 
about the events of the day, she gave a very shrewd guess as to 
what had happened. 

"You shall tell me what you like, my ilarling, and keep what 
you like from me. If 1 could but help you—” 

" You must help me!" she cried wildly. "This is the second 
ordeal 1 have passed through; 1 have not strength for it. 1 had 
learned to love him with all my heart; 1— what shall 1 do? Oh, 
Heaven! what shall 1 do?" 

Her courage and strength gave way; she fell on her knees, weep- 
ing wildly. 

" Heaven help me! Heaven help me! What shall 1 do? He is 
gone; every one will know soon that he is married. What shall 1 
do?” 

" My darling, try to calm yourself," said Miss Lockwood; " you 
will be ill— try to be calm." 

But there was to be no calm or peace just then for Lady May; 
she had suffered so cruelly, and the reaction after her long self con- 


208 


BETWEEJS” TWO LOVES. 


Irol was so great and so violent. She flung her white arms above 
her heart; she fell, with her face on the floor, crying: 

“ What sliall I do? Heaven help me! what shall 1 do? My lieart^^- 
is broken. Oh, love, love, if 1 could die!” 

So, through the long hours of the night. Miss Lockwood held her 
in her arms, trying to calm the wild, h 3 ’sterical cries— they never 
varied. 

” What shall 1 do? Heaven help me! what shall 1 do?” 

Not until the morning dawn did those piteous cries cease; then 
the tired eyes closed, the tired voice was silent; she could weep and 
cry no more. 

” Keep my secret,” she whispered to Miss Lockwood; ‘‘ keep my 
secret; no one must know that he had hidden his marriage from 
me. Help me to paint my face, to dress my hair; help me to laugh 
and to talk, to dance, to sing, for two days— only two days— and, 
attor that, there will be time to die.” 

‘‘ You shall not die,” said Miss Lockwood, kissing her face, with 
fast-falling tears, ” You shall not die lor his sake, my darling. 
He never was good enough for you; you shall live to bless some 
one else.” 

CHAPTER LV. 

** YOU LADY ADAIR!” 

A MONTH had passed since Daisy returned to France. All was 
■well there: the little one had not lost through her absence, Mrs. 
Erne had “gone through” a great deal with Bedina, who had 
proved more than ordinarily stupid; but she had contented herself 
by thanking Heaven that in good time she should be among “ sensi- 
ble Christians ” again. She was glad to see Daisy, but the Daisy 
who left Leville was not the same person as the one who returned; 
this Daisy was a quiet, self-reliant, firm, though gentle woman. It 
seemed to her mother, even, that she looked 5 ^ears older; the fair 
face had quite a new expression; the sweet, sail eyes seemed to look 
oirt with a half-frightened glance at the world that she had found 
so mucli harder, and so rnuen more wicked than she had thought. 
Dais}’’ had passed through the ordeal of suffering — from it she had 
learned experience that years can never give. 

A curious Rind of resignation came over her. She knew’ the worst 
—there was no more to dread or to fear— her husband did not love 
her, and did love some one else. She had little hope, but, at least, 
she was saved the torture of suspense — the dread of unknown eril; 
all the truth, such as it was, lay bare before her. 

“1 should think,” she said to herself, “that in all the world 
there are no three people so miserable as we are.” 

The only wav out of the ditliculty that she could see was to die; 
but then Providence did not always lend itself to the arrangements 
and wishes of men. Another doubt came to her— in Lady IMay she 
recognized a high-souled, noble woman— it was doubtlul whelher 
she would ever think of Sir Clinton with respect, much less love 
him. 

Not that Daisy had any intention of dying, but she dwelt so con- 


T?ETWEEN TWO LOVES. 


209 


stanlly on the fact that her death was the only means of freeing her 
husband, that she came to look on it as a matter of course. A 
month had passed, and she had never heard of or from him. No 
suspicion came to her now, as it would have done before. She 
never once, even ever so faintly, fancied that he was hovering near 
JLiady May. She had returned home an altered woman, resigned to 
her fate, whatever it might be, patient to endure to the end, but 
firmly resolved that there should be no more concealment— she 
would have justice done to herself and her child. 

“ Mother,” she said, the day after her return, “ we have been de- 
ceived in my husband’s circumstances.” 

Mrs. Erne grew pale with apprehension. Was she to lose the in- 
come that her daughter’s husband had settled on her? 

” Deceived, Daisy! Dear me, 1 am sorry to hear that. 1 had no 
idea — is he— has he lost all his money, then?” 

Daisy looked up in wonder. 

” Oh, no, nothing of that kind. You ilo not understand, mother, 
of cotirse. His name is not Mr. Clifton.” 

” Daisy, my dear, what do you mean?” 

” His name is not Mr. Clifton. He is a baronet— a very rich and 
noble man.” 

Mrs. Erne’s face was a |5icture of surprise. 

” A baronet, my dear! W hat is that?” 

” It means that he has a title, mother. His real name is Sir 
Clinton Adair, 1 am not Daisy Clifton. 1 am Lady Adair. ” 

The poor homely mother grew paler still with fright, 

“ Oh, Daisy, my dear, how can it be? Are jmu quite sure that 
your marriage is all right — was it legal?” 

Daisy laughed a low, biller laugh, not good to hear. 

” Perfectly legal before men,” she replied, thinking that xjerhaps 
the absence of love made it illegal before God. 

” You are quite sure of it, Daisy? Do not laugh at me, my dear. 
See, 1 am trembling now. It is such a terrible thing, Daisy. Daisy, 
my dear, if he is a great nobleman, why did he marry you?” 

Again that laugh that was so unpleasant to hear. 

‘‘"VYhat do great noblemen marry tor, mother- is it not either 
money or love?” 

‘‘ Yes, 1 should suppose so, Daisy.” 

” Well we may be quite sure that Sir Clinton did not marry me 
for money — ^ had none. The only conclusion we can arrive at is 
that he married me for — ” 

“ For love,” interrupted her mother; ” and he must have loved 
3'ou very dearly, Daisy. 1 never thought to live to see this day. 
You Lady Adair!” 

” Yes,” replied Daisy— she seemed to lake keen delight in talk- 
ing about this title of hers—” the baby there, mother, such a little 
mite he looks, he will one day be Sir Clifton Adair; for, do you 
know what 1 have decided upon doing? 1 shall call my baby 
Clifton, in memory of those early days, when 1 believed it was his 
fatlier’s name.” 

” Daisy,” said Mrs. Erne, slowly, ” how very much your husband 
must have loved you. 1 suppose he could have chosen from among 
the richest ladies in England.” 


210 


BETWEEN TWO LOVES. 


“ Certainly he could,” replied Daisy, slowly. 

** Yet he chose you. 1 should not have imagined that he loved 
you so well; no one would have thouifht it trom his manner.” 

” They would not indeed, mother,” was the calm reply. 

Not to that anxious motherly woman would Daisy confide the 
secret of her anxiety and distress. 

So time passed on, and no new’S came from Sir Clinton. The 
only message that reached her trom England was that she received 
the new'spapers containing the announcement of her own mar- 
riage. There was no date given, no place mentioned — merely the 
briefest possible paragraph to say that Sir Clinton Adair had recently 
married Miss Erne; and every person who read that paragraph fan- 
cied that the whole details were given in some other paper. She 
hardly knew whether to be most pleased wdth the fact that her 
marriase was announced, or vexed at the method of the announce- 
ment; it showed one thing, though, very plainly, that, although he 
had not cared to make the fact of his marriage public, still it had 
been legal, and all in proper form. Then aiiother English paper 
told her that Sir Clinton and Lady Adair were on the Continent, 
and intended to spend some time there. Again she wondered, but 
came to the conclusion that it was Sir Clinton himself who had 
caused these lines to be inserted. True, Sir Clinton and Lady 
Adair were abroad, but where was he? The weeks passed on — it 
was six since her return. At last she received a letter from Bou- 
logne from her husband. Daisy’s hand trembled as she opened it, 
wmndering what it contained. Only a few lines, and those were 
written in the most feeble and trembling of hands. They merely 
said: 

” Deak Daisy,— I am at Boulogne, at the Hotel du Nord. 1 am 
very ill. One doctor says that i shall recover, the other that 1 shall 
not. If 1 die there is much to be arranged over the boy. 1 must 
make a will, appointing trustees tor him. It would be belter, I 
think, for you to come and see me here, if you do not mind the long 
journey. Your mother will take care of the child. From your 
affectionate husband, Clinton Adair.” 

Her first thought was one of bitterness— her mother take care of 
the child! Most fathers, if they found thenn'^elves in danger of 
death, would long to see their only son — would wish to kiss the 
little face; but not he— not Sir Clinton Adair. . ^ 

Her second thought was one of deep sorrow and pain; he was in 
danger of death, and she forgot his fault lor the time— forgot that 
he had never loved her, that she had been most unhappy with him 
—forgot all and everything, except that he was her husband, and 
in danger of death. 

A^ilhout loss of time she made all arrangements with her mother. 

” It seems to me, Daisy,” said that good woman, plaintively, 
” that you are always going away from home. 1 am sure that 
Bedina will be mistress of the house; she was before. If your 
husband is ill, how could he write?” 

But Daisy listened to no remonstrance, and she did not rest again 
until she was on her way to Boulogne. The Hotel du Nord was 
goon reached, and there Daisy found Sir Clinton sick, almost unto 


BETWEEN TWO LOTES. 211 

death. She inquired hastily what was the matter with him, and 
tliey told her that he had gone out one evening and was caught in 
a violent storm of rain. They had begged of him to be careful, as 
so many people were ill, but he laughed at all advice, perhaps being 
quite inditleient as to whether we were ill or well. The result was 
what might have been expected, a severe and terrible low fever. 
Daisy was taken at once to his room, as he had expressed a wish to 
that effect, and she was startled at the havoc that grief and illness 
had made in Sir Clinton. He was weak as a child; his hands were 
shadowy, his face pale and thin, almost transparent. He looked at 
her when she entered with quivering lips 

“ It was very good of you to come, Daisy,” he faltered. ” You 
heap coals of fire on my head.” 

‘‘You never thought that i should refuse, Caro; you knew me 
better than that. 1 should have come to you from the other end of 
the world. You have been very ill. Are you better?” 

” Yes,” he replied, gravely. ” 1 shall not die this time, Daisy; 
1 am much better. Y/hen 1 heard the doctors disagree 1 thought 
that my life was safe, 1 think so now; but I have been very ill; 
and, Itst my illness should take a serious turn, 1 thought it better 
to send for you.” 

Daisy had taken oft her bonnet and cloak. She went up to Sir 
Clinton and knelt down by his bedside. 

” This is line old limes,” she said. ‘‘ You lying ill while 1 nurse 
you.” 

“Daisy,” said Sir Clinton, “there is nothing like illness for 
bringing a man to his senses. Since 1 have been lying here 1 have 
been thinking— thinking deeply— and 1 can see my fault in its true 
colors, in ils f ull enormity. I have been very wrong ; 1 have wronged 
Lady May; but, above all, 1 have wTonged you. 1 can make no 
amends to her; there is nothing that can alone to her for the years 
she has wasted over me; but for my greatest wrong 1 can atone; for 
my studied neglect of you, my indifterence, my want of love, my 
coldness, f will do my best to atone. You have been a true, faith- 
ful, tender litlle wife to me, Daisy, and 1 will, if God spares my 
life, make all up to you, and will begin again quite afresh.” 

Daisy bent her sweet, flower-like face, all flushed with happiness, 
on the thin, white hands of her husband. 

“ You fill my heart with gladness, Caro,” she said. 

“ Can jmu love me, Daisy, as though 1 had been the best of hus- 
bands?” he said. “ Ah, my dear wife, illness sliows us ever 3 dhing 
in true colors. Now that 1 look back upon my life with eyes that 
have been dimmed with the shadows of death, 1 see so much to 
blame — 1 see my sin in all its enormity, and 1 only wonder that 1 
was mad enough or blind enough not to see better what 1 was do- 
ing. Daisy, 1 feel like a man who had been mad with delirium or 
fever; 1 can not have been in my sane, sober senses. Do you know, 
little wife, that it 1 had heard the same thing of any one else— that 
any one else had behaved as 1 have done, 1 should liave called such 
conduct by a veiy bad name. Illness seems to have cleared my 
brain as it has cleared my senses. 1 can not imagine what infatua- 
tion was over me, or why 1 ever concealed my marriage from Lady 
May.” 


212 


BETWEEN TWO LOVES. 


“ It was the first step in the wroni; direction,” said Daisy, ” and 
it was difficult to retrace. 1 can imagine the temptation when she, 
whom you loved so dearly, found you out, and asked you to be 
friends. It is some comfort to think that what you did was in the 
beginning not quite your own fault. But, Caro, do you think that 
you will ever learn to love me?” 

He raised himself and looked down on the sweet face. 

” Daisy,” he said, ” 1 am goinjr to be a good man, Heaven help- 
ing: me — a good man. 1 will make you happy; I will devote my 
life to you and to my child; 1 will only remember the past to atone 
for it. Will you help me, dear wife, by being kind and patient 
with me?” 

I A sunbeam, passing through the window, lingered on the flower- 
'like face she raised to his, as Daisy, with her whole heart on her 
lips, answered: 

” Yes.” 


CHAPTER LYl. 

‘‘he will ALW'AYS love her.” 

The resolve taken in illness had its effect. Sir Clinton rose from 
his sick-bed a wiser man; the past seemed to him like a fevered 
dream— lie could hardly realize it. How near he had been to the 
very brink of crime! Now that he was calm, collected, and him- 
self again, he was filled witli wonder that he could have ever so far 
forgotten the most common rules of right and wrong — he would 
live to make amends. When he had quite recovered he wrote to 
Lad}'^ May a long letter — one which he honestly believed would be 
Ids last to her. He implored of her to pardon him ; he told her that 
his love for her had been so great lhai it had literally driven him 
mad, and that to his madness must be attributed the wrong which 
he had done. 

‘‘ f was never for one moment myself,” he said, “ from the night 
when 1 believed that 1 had lost you until I lay sick unto death; 
then, and then only, my senses came back to me, and 1 saw what 1 
bad done; then, and then only, 1 knew that 1 had been offithe verge 
of the deadliest crime. May, 1 have wronged you more dcejrly 
than woman was ever injured before; 1 will do my best to atone for 
it. But, IVIay — May, this is the last cry of a broken heart to you. 1 
can face my life better it you will send me one word to say that 
you have forgiven me, and that you are happy. It 1 had that as- 
surance, 1 should be a different man — 1 could resume my life with 
a new heart. AVill you send me that one word, Itlay?” 

He gave the letter to Daisy to read, but she refused. 

‘‘1 trust you,” she said, ‘‘and 1 trust Lady May. 1 have no 
wish to read it.” 

The answer came in due time-*-brief, hut full of meaning; it 
consisted of these lines: 

‘‘ 1 forgive you from the depth of my heart; the fault was in me, 
and 1 am quite happy.” 

Not another word, and with this Sir Clinton was compelled to be 
content; but to him there was more of pathos in those tew words, 


BETWEEK TWO LOVES. 


213 


“ 1 am quite happy,” than in a whole volume ot reproach. She 
had torgiven him; that ought to be enough. Now he must bid 
good by to the bright, beautiful drtam that had made the bright- 
ness of bis lite; he^must live tor his wife and child. 

He Avas firm and resolute, but the doom of the wretched w’as on 
him; he might as well have tried to tear the living, beating heart 
from his body, and live without it, as tear from his mind all thought 
of her. He was firm and steadfast; he would not spend one minute 
in conscious dreams of her; he tried to put all memory ot her out 
ot his life, but he never quite succeeded, because she had been life 
itself to him. 

Then, when he was strong enough to travel, he asked Daisy if 
they should go back to Leville; but Daisy had grown wise; she 
dearly loved Her pretty home among the vines and olives, yet she 
would not return there, knowing that to him it must be haunted by 
memories of the past. It was there that he had dreamed of, thought 
of, and suffered for Lady May. 

“ Caro, we will not go back to Leville,” she said, ‘‘ it is a very 
pretty home, but very dull. Why should we not travel? That 
would be the best thing for you, it wmuld cheer you, and it would 
educate me. 1 have always had a great longing to see Spain— will 
you take me there?” 

So it was settled; Daisy was not willing for Sir Clinton to return 
to Leville — she went herself. Mrs. Erne, only too thankful to re- 
turn to England, went home a richer and wiser woman; until the 
day she died she never ceased telling the history of foreign lands; 
she became the heroine of the whole country-side — an authority 
whom all the poorer neighbors consulted, and not a litile proud was 
the kindly woman ot her superior knowledge. 

The house at Leville was left empty; baby with his nurse was to 
travel with them. Sir Clinton had smilingly acceded to Daisy’s 
wish that the boy should be called Clifton. He W’^as beginning to 
love the tair-Jiaired, laughing boy who smiled in his face and 
stretched out his arms to him. 

The sun was shining iust then for Daisy; her husband was kind 
and attentive to her; what was better still, he loved the child. She 
believed that he had ceased to think or dream of Lady ]\lay. They 
went to Spain; Daisy’s dream ot delight w’as verified. They lin- 
gered in fair Castile and sunny Granada, where it seemed to her that 
a new and more beautiful life began for them. They remained there 
for more than a year; Daisy decided not to return to England. At 
present all wuis well; what might happen if they w^ere once more on 
the spot, and Sir Clinton met again with his lost love? Like a wise 
woman, Daisy knew that prevention was better than cure — that it 
was wiser to keep out of temptation than to struggle against it. 

The present was her own; no one could tell what the future might 
be. She tried her best to be a companion to her husband. She 
read deeply; she thought continually; she listened to the conversa- 
tion of wise people. She lost no opportunity ot improving herself; 
and the result was, that in the graceful, beautiful Lady Adair no 
one would have recognized simple Daisy Erne. 

She was greatly admired. The dark-eyed Spaniards especially 
admired the fair, lily like beauty of Sir Clinton’s wife. Whatever 


214 


BETWEEN TWO LOVES. 


city they visited they were eagerly welcomed in the first circles. If 
Sir Clinton had been inclined to jealousy, he would have been most 
jealous, for never had fair lady more courtiers. It was all one to 
Daisy; there was but one face in the whole world for her, and that 
was the face ot her husband. 

When they had spent a year in Spain, Sir Clinton asked her it she 
would return home. She declined. Not j'-et— she was not ready 
just yet, she told him; and he looked at her half wonderingly. 

“ Do you not trust me yet, Daisy?" he asked: and she answered: 

“ Yes, 1 trust you, but Uie truest wisdom is to shun temptation, 
not to seek it," and in his heart he knew that she was right. 

‘‘ Where shall we go now, Daisy?" he asked, gently. 

" 1 should like to go to Italy, Caro," she replied, and to Italy they 
went. 

The little Clifton had grown into a beautiful boy by this time— he 
could walk and talk. He was a charming child, fair ot face, with 
a bold, bright manner that wms irresistibly charming. Sir Clinton 
loved him very dearly; he forgot bis troubles and trials wdien he was 
with the boy; they w^ere quite companions. Daisy's heart grew light 
when she saw how dearly the father loved the son for whom he had 
once cared so little. Sir Clinton was more like himself when the 
boy was with him than at any other time. He talked to him quite 
gravely about the time wiien he should be master ot Eastwold, and 
the little one seemed to understand. To Daisy's great delight, as 
the time passed on. Sir Clinton never seemed happy when away from 
the boy. She smiled to herself, thinking, half sadly, how liule she 
once dreamed of being jealous of her son. 

Was she perfectly happy? who shall say? Her child w\a8 lovable 
and lovely; her husband was all kindness and attention; she was 
Lady Adair of Eastwold, she had all that woman’s heart could wish 
or desire— was she happy? Perhaps this was the answer, that one 
day wdien she stood wudching the sun set, the whole face of the 
bright heavens covered wdth crimson and gold, she clasped lier 
hands, raising them after the manner of cne who prays: 

" 1 would rather, far rather, be there than here," said Lady Adair. 

Her husband never mentioned Lady May’s name; he w^as kind- 
ness itself to her, but often in the early morning dawn, when she 
heard him murmur in his sleep, the name upon his lips was May. 

" He will always love her," thought Daisy; " he can not help it— 
it was his fate. Oh, miserable me, to stand between them!” 

Lady Adair looked very beautiful, but she was not very strong; 
people told her she must take care ot herself; then they wondered 
at the strange dreary smile wdth which she listentd. Her husband 
was very careful of her; he made her wrap up well; he would not 
let her breathe the night air. Once, when he w^as begging ot her 
to be careful, she placed her hands one on each side ot his face. 

" Poor Carol” she said, in a gentle voice, and he wondered wdiy 
she should pity him. 

Still he did not feel the least anxiety over her— w’hat need? She 
talked, laughed— she was alwuays bright and cheerful; people spoke 
of her as one of the most piquant characters they ever met. She 
was wonderfully honest and straighiforw'aid; shew^as quick at rep- 
artee; every day her husband saw' in her something more worthy 


BETWEEN TWO LOVES. 


215 


of admiration. He had perhaps known no greater surprise than 
when this simple Daisy of his turned out to bo what she really was 
— a bright, clever woman. 

“ 1 shall not leave Italy until 1 have seen Rome, Caro,” said 
Daisy. ” When we do get to England, vve shall not be in a hurry 
to leave it again. Perhaps we may not travel again. Let us see 
Rome, Caro, while we are here.” 

One or two Enslish friends to whom they confided their intentions 
ot going on to Rome warned them. It was not a good time for 
visiting the Imperial City. Strangers going just at that time were 
liable to take the fever-better wait; but Daisy only laughed. 

” 1 shall not take the malady, Caro,’” she said; ‘‘ kt us go— we 
want to go to England in the spring.” 

They went, and Lady Adair enjoyed the visit very much. She 
seemed to grow better and stronger; perhaps the fact that she was 
better made her imprudent. While lingering on the Campagna, she 
caught some brealh of fatal air, and how it was no one quite knew, 
but she caught the fever about which she had been so often warned. 

At first the attack was slight, and no one felt either anxiety or 
fear Sir Clinton took her flowers and fiuit, he talked to her when 
she wanted to talk, and he read to ner in a low voice when she 
wished it. 

“ She should be quite well,” she said, ” in a few days, and then 
they would begin to think about returning home.” Rut the days 
grew longer and she grew worse. 

It was the sudden attack of delirium that first frightened Sir 
Clinton. Once, when he went into her room, she fancied herself 
back at Leville, and was crying loudly to Bedina that the house 
was burning. He calmed her, and was shocked to see how much 
worse she was. 

” 1 have been dreaming,” she said to him, with a faint smile. 
” 1 thought Bedina was here ” • 

He talked to her for a few minutes, then was startled again at 
finding that she had wandered into the shadowland of delirium. 

From that time she grew steadily worse — it became certain that 
she would not recover. Sir Clinton was like one distracted; he 
went about in search ot the most clever physicians— he would have 
moved heaven and earth to save her, but she was not to be saved. 
The fiat had gone forth— Daisy was to die. Sir Clinton would not 
believe it at first. He said the doctors must be mistaken, their ver- 
dicts were all nonsense; she must recover. No one could call him 
cold and careless now; his indifference had all vanished; his wife 
was in danger; for the time being he forgot that there was any other 
woman in the world. 

The day came when Daisy, faint and feeble, whispered to him: 

” Caro, 1 am going to die. 1 thought 1 should; it was the only 
way for the story to end.” 

” For Heaven’s sake, Daisy, do not say such terrible words,” he 
replied. 

But she, bending over him, said: 

‘‘ Caro, will you send for Lady 31ay?— 1 want to see her before 
1 die.” 


216 


BETWEEN TWO LOVES. 


CHAPTER LVll. 
daisy’s bequest. 

“ Daisy is dying, and wislies to see you,” wrote Sir Clinton to 
Lady May; “ 1 know that you will lose no time in coming.” 

The letter was sent at once, but it was forwarded from Clifte 
House to Trevlyn Nest, and from there to Cowes, so that some time 
elapsed before Lady May received it. 

She did not lose one hour; she merely waited to read the letter to 
Miss Lockwood. 

‘‘ You must come with me,” she said; and the kind hearted com- 
panion did not in the least object. 

“ Daisy dying!” All through that long journey, with the clang 
of wheels, and the throbbing of the engines, the beating of the 
waves, and the rush of steam, Lady May heard those words; 

” Daisy is dying!” 

Other words haunted her — those she had uttered herself: 

” Toil have held a daisy in your hand, and have flung it care- 
lessly away.” 

. Was it so? Would she find Daisy dying of her husband’s care- 
lessness and neglect? Ah, please Heaven, no! 

They never rested one hour by day or by night until they reached 
Rome. Sir Clinton, with his family and suite were staying at a 
large house in Via Condolti; there they hastened. 

Lady May’s first breathless in:iuiiy of the man who opened the 
door to them, was of Lady Adair. Alas! there was no good news. 
Daisy was dying — pretty, simple, loving Daisy; that strange mixt- 
ure of childhood and womanhood — honest, clear-sighted, yet so 
simple— Daisy, who Lad loved her husband so dearly.^ As she sat 
there, waitiuL^ Lady Islay’s eyes filled with tears. 

Sir Clinton came to them in the pretty saloon— so altered, so care- 
worn, that it was with the greatest difficulty they recognized him. 
He held out his hand in greeting to Lady May. 

‘‘lam glaa you have come,” he said. ” Daisy is very restless, 
and asks continually for you.” 

” For me?” said Lady May, with quiveiing lips. “ Oh, Clin- 
ton, is it possible that she is dying? — that Daisy is dying?” 

” It is most unhappily true,” he replied. ” I believe nothing but 
her intense desire to see you has kept her alive so long.” i 

• “ What is it?” she continued. ‘‘ What has killed her?” | 

He seemed to read her half-expressed doubt and fear in her face. 

” May,” he said, gravely, “ many sins lie at my door, but not the 
tninlest shadow of unkindness to my wife, Daisy. Since 1— well, 
in plain words— came to my senses, 1 have been the kindest, the 
most attentive of husbands to her. She will tell you so herself.” 

Lady May cried, impulsively: 

“ 1 thank Heaven!” 

” Did you think that 1 had beep unkind to her?” asked Sir Cliu- 
ton, reproachfully. 


BETWEEJT TWO LOVES. 


217 

“No, not unkind,” she replied; “ hut 1 did fear that you had, 
perhaps, neglected her; and she is sensitive -poor, pretty Daisy!” 

“ No, 1 have not neglecteil her. 1 have kept my promise to the 
letter, May. 1 have learned to love lay wife, and 1 am sincere in 
saying that 1 would give uiy life now, this moment, tn save hers.” 

“1 believe you,” said Lady May. “ Now, shall we go to her?” 

“ Take oft your bonnet and cloak,” said Miss Lockwood. “ You 
look so ill, May.” 

But Lady May had no patience to wait while wine was sent tor. 
Slie only cared to be with Daisy— Daisy, who, in dying, had sent 
for her. 

She V ent with Sir Clinton to the room w^bere Lad}’' Adair was ly- 
ing. While she lived, that seene never passed from her mind. She 
entered a beautiful room, with a large window looking to the west; 
the sun was setting, and its last beams lingered on the vine- 
wreathed window. There were pictures and statues, books and 
flowers, grand old furniture, a massive bed with carved posts amt 
velvet hangings. On the white pillow she saw the white face ot 
Daisy Adair. 

Dying! Ah, would to Heaven it had been otherwise! The 
shadowy but not the horror, of death was there. The blue eyes, so 
large and bright, were looking eagerly for her; the sweet lips, still 
crimson as coral, were slightly parted; the fair hair hung over her 
neck and sfioulders — sweet, simple Daisy, with her woman’s soul 
looking out of her eyes. She held out both her thin, white hands 
in silent greeting to Lady May. There was a minute of silence, that 
seemed like a gieat heartbeat; then l^ady IMay knelt down by 
Daisy’s side, and hiding her face on the white hands, wept passion- 
ate tears. 

“ Are you weeping for me?” asked Daisy, faintly. “ Do not; 
believe me, 1 am happy; 1 would rather die than live. Caro, come 
here.” 

He knelt down by Lady May’s side, and, taking a hand of each in 
her faint, feeble grasp, Daisy kissed them. 

“ 1 know you both love me now.” 

“That we do,” said Lady May, sobbing as though her heart 
would break. 

Daisy wuis looking, not at her, but at the red, roiiiwi sun and the 
crimson olouds. Perhaps to her mind came lines that she had loved 
w’ell: 

“ The voice that now is speaking shall be beyond the sun.” 

The sweet, red light lingeied on her pale face and touched her 
fair hair with gold. Slowly .she seemed to bring back her eyes and 
her thoughts from the setting sun to the two kneeling by her side, 

“ Do not think 1 am sorry to die,” she said, in her faint, low 
voice. “1 have never talked much about religion ; it was too deep 
down in my heart'for me to talk ot; but 1 have loved God,” she 
said, with her old, child-like simplicity. “ 1 lofe Him now"; 1 long 
to be with Him, to be at rest. There are no mistakes in Heaven, 
Caro, and our marriage was a great mistake.” 

“ My darling Daisy, you have been the sweetest wife to me.” 

“ 1 have loved you very much,” she said; “ but it w’as a terrible 


218 


BETWEEN TWO LOVES, 


mistake. This is your first love — your only love, Caro— and 1 give 
you back to her, dear. You have been kind to me, you have refused 
me no wish, you have studied how best to make me happy; but — 
ah, well, 1 would rather be with God in heaven, Caro, than here.” 

He bent down and kissed the white brow. 

” 1 know that you would like me to live,” she said, ” and so 
would Lady May; but 1 would not wish to get well. It was the 
onlv way, after all, in which the story could end. 1 do not say it 
in bitterness, Caro.” 

‘‘ Oh, Daisy,” cried Lady May; ” 1 would change places with you. 
Do you think that 1 shall ever be happy alter this?” 

” les,” she replied, with a beautiful smile; ” I think you will. 
1 sh ill die, and you will be very sorry tor me; you will both mourn 
for me; and then, wdien you have forgotten the sorrow, you will be 
happy. 1 did not mean it: but, you see, 1 came between you; 1 
have "been the barrier between you; 1 have been like a dark shadow 
over your lives. Now it is all over, and 1 am going home to God. 
Oh, Caro, Caro, I am so glad to go!” 

She clasped both hands more tightly in her own. 

” Caro,” she said, ” 1 give you back the fair young love of your 
youth. Lady’^ May, promise me that you will be kind to him, and 
marry him in time— when he asks you?” 

‘‘ You are breaking my heart, Daisy,” said Lady May'. ‘‘ 1 can 
not promise — ” 

“ But you must; 1 can not die until you do. Poor Caro! he has 
had no real happiness yet; let him have some. 1 shall not die in 
peace until you promise me. And when 1 am dead, and y'ou look 
up at such a sky as this, all covered with crimson clouds, think that 
1 am looking at you from behind them. Oh, Caro, make her 
promise!” 

” Oh, Daisy, was this what you wanted her for?” 

” Yes; 1 shall die so happy if 1 know that she is going to bey^our 
wife. Promise me,” she continued, kissing the trembling hand 
clasped in her own. ‘‘I'ou would not see me die unhappily, 
would y'ou. Lady May? Whisper to me only one word, ‘yes;’ it 
will give me peace.” 

She must have whispered it, for a sudden light came over Daisy’s 
face— a sweet smile play'ed round her lips. 

” Then it will all come right,” she 5^aid; “ and. Lady May, there 
is a kind of justice in it, alter all. You will have Caro, but my 
son will be his heir. My son will be always near him and with hini, 
to remind him of me; my son will live in the beautiful home that 1 
have never seen. There is justice in it, after all.” 

“ Yea,” said Sir Clinton, sadly. 

Daisy looked up at him suddenly. 

Caro,” she said, “ will you let" Clifton come in? 1 want to see 
if he will like Lady May?” 

‘‘ It will agitate you, Daisy,” he said. 

” No; let bim come. Go yourself for him, Caro.” 

Sir Clinton quitted the room, and Daisy drew Lady May’s face 
down to hers; she spoke in quick, short gasps, as though her breath 
were leaving her. 

‘‘ I have given you my husband,” she said, ” and 1 am going to 


BETWEEN TWO LOVES. 


219 


give you my child— my own boy. 'Vou are a noble woman. Oh, 
promise me, while God hears you speak, that you will be kind to 
my boy, and love him as your own?” 

” 1 promise you that 1 will,” she replied. 

” Mamma, mammal” cried a sweet, shrill little voice; and Daisy 
tried to raise her head. A. faint flush came over her face. 

” This is my boy,” she said. 

The next minute he came into the room, his little face beaming 
with joy at the thought that he should see his mamma. 

” My own mamma!” he cried, springing to her, while Sir Clinton 
hushed him with quiet words. 

” ]\Iy darling!” said poor Daisy. 

She drew him to her; she kissed the sweet, flushed face — ah, with 
what speechless love! Her bauds lingered on the sunny curls; her 
lips quivered. Ah, Heaven, what dying mothers suffer who leave 
behind them a little child! 

” Clifton,” she said, ” will you love this lady?” 

The boy took one glance at "the pale, beautiful face of Lady Alay. 

” 1 love you, mamma,” he said, ” better lhan all the world.” 

“ 1 know; but will you love this lady, dear?” 

”1 will, if you tell me,” he replied. 

” 1 do tell you, darling. Love her, and be very kind to her; do 
all that she bids you.” 

The boy looked up with a sudden expression of fear. 

‘‘ Where are you going, mamma?” he cried. 

‘‘My darling,” said Daisy, ”1 am goinir home to heaven.” 

“Take me with you, mamma. 1 love you— no one else,” he 
cried. 

And Lady May, clasping him in her arms, kissed the lair little 
face, soothing him with sweet words. Then Daisy half raised 
herself, a sudden light came into her eyes, all her heart came in 
the strength with which she opened her arms and clasped the 
boy to her breast. All her long-repressed love, all the pain that 
might have been jealousy, all the sorrow of the long years, came 
out in that passionate cry: 

“Oh, my boy! my boy! you must always love me best. 1 
am your own mother — you must love me best.” 

Still holding him, as though no earthly force could take him 
from her, Daisy died; and the same sunbeam that touched her 
hair with gold "brightened the curls of her little son— the same 
light that lingered over the mether’s dead white face, seemed to 
kiss the rosy mouth of the living chila. 

” Caro,” she had whispered, an hour before she died, ” will you 
bury me in that pretty cemetery at Leville, near the grave of that 
man w^ho died of love— you remember?” 

‘‘ 1 remember,” said Sir Clinton, 

And, true to his promise, he buried Daisy there. 

CHAPTER LVIll. 

AFTER FIVE YEARS. 

Five years have passed since Daisy was buried, and one fine 
evening in July there was a very pretty picture to be seen on the 


220 


BETWEEN TWO LOVES. 


lawn at Eastwold. Sir Clinton A.dair was giving his little daughter 
her first lesson in walking. Miss Loekwood, who looked on most 
anxiously, never wearied of giving him all kinds of caution, while 
Lady Adair sat watching the performance with a bright and charm- 
ing smile. 

Down went baby on the soft, green grass. Lady May laughed; 
Miss Lockwmod cried out; Sir Clinton hastened to raise her. 

“ No one can learn to walk straight,” said Lady May, ” without 
many falls.” 

T’he words seemed to impress Sir Clinton. He gave the laugh- 
ing, rosy baby to Miss Lockwood, and sat down by his wife’s side. 

” Where is Clifton?” he asked. 

” 1 can hear him,” she replied. ” He is practicing with the bow 
and arrow that 1 bought him, and he has a grand idea of shooting. 
Here he is.” 

A beautiful boy came running toward her. 

My darling mamma,” he ciied, ** see how well 1 can aim.” 

Lady May laid down her book and took the liveliest interest in 
his attempts at archery. She was so kind, so gentle, so patient, 
that after a time he flung his arms round her neck and kissed her 
with a kind of rapture. 

“ You are so good to me,” he said. 

And she, looking up at the sweet summer sky, murmurs: 

“ I hope Daisy knows how dearly 1 love her boy.” 

The boy himself has not forgotten his mother; he lias some mem- 
ory of a pure, sweet face, and dying arras that clasped him— of a 
passionate cry that was followed by terrible silence; he has a vague 
memory of love that was deeper and sweeter than any he has known 
since. He dimly remembers how some one used to kiss him and 
weep passionate tears over him. He has been to the cemetery at 
Leville, and they told him that his mother lay there, fie glanced, 
with puzzled eyes, at the beautiful face of Lady May. 

‘‘ Y’ou are my mamma now,” he said; and she replied that. 
Heaven blessing her, she would be a good mother to him. 

Three years elapsed between Daisy’s death and Sir Clinton’s sec- 
ond marriage. The ceremony had been a very quiet one, and they 
had gone straight home to Eastwold. Then they led a most useful, 
hapfiy life. Sir Clinton became a man of note and fame. They had 
but one little daughter. As Daisy had said, there was some justice 
in it — Lady May had Sir Clinton, but her son was heir. 

They talk of her in low tones, and dwell lovingly on her memory. 
Once the boy gathered a simple white field-daisy, and brought it to 
his father. He wondered much why Sir Clinton kissed it with tears 
in his e5’^es, telling him that he must never again gather a daisy, for, 
when they were gathered, they faded and died. 

He is a happy man; but in the solemn hours of twilight, and the 
mystic hours of night, lie often heard these words: 

” You held a daisy in your hand, and you have carelessly flung it 
away.” 


THE END. 


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36 Adam Bede. By George Eliot . . 20 

37 Nicholas Nickleby, By Charles 

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38 The Wi low Lerouge. By Emile 

Gaboriau 91 

39 In Silk Attire. By William 

BIh-cIc ••*.•••••••• • i3C 

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Reade 20 

47 AltioraPeto. By Laurence Oli- 

phant 20 

48 Thicker Than Water. By James 

Payn 20 

49 That Beautitul Wretch. By 

William Black 20 

60 The Strange Adventures of a 

Phaeton. By William Black. 20 

61 Dora Thome. By the author of 

“ Her Mother’s Sin ” 20 

62 The New Magdalen. By Wilkie 

Collins 10 

63 The Story of Ida. By Francesca 10 

64 A Broken Wedding-Ring. By 

the author of “ Dora Thome ” 20 

65 The Three Guardsmen. By 

Alexander Diimas 20 

66 Phantom Fortune. By Miss M. 

E. Braddon 20 

67 Shirley. By Chailotte Brontfi. . 20 

68 By the Gate of the Sea. By D. 

Christie Murray 10 

69 Vice Versa. By F. Anstey 20 

60 The Last of tlie Mohicans. By 

J. Fenimore Cooper 20 

81 Charlotte Temple. By Mrs. 

Rowson 10 

82 The Executor. By Mrs. Alex- 

ander 20 

63 The Spy. By J. Fenimore Coop 

er 20 

84 A Maiden Fair. By Charles 
Gibbon 10 

65 Back to the Old Home. By Mary 

Cecil Hay 10 

66 The Romance of a Poor Young 

Man. By Octave Feuillet 10 

67 Lorna Doone. By R. D. Black- 

more 80 

68 A Queen Amongst Women. By 

the author of “ Dora Thorne ’’ 10 

69 Madolin’s Lover. By the author 

of “ Dora Tliorne ” 20 

70 White Wings : A Yachting Ro- 

mance. By William Black... 10 

71 A Struggle for Fame. By Mrs. 

J. H. Riddell 20 

72 Old Myddelton’s Money. By 

Mary Cecil Hay 20 

78 Redeemed by Love. By the 
author of “ Dora Thorne ”... 20 
74 Aurora Floyd. By Miss M. E. 

Braddon 20 

78 Twenty Years After. By Alex- 
ander Dumas 20 

76 Wife in Name Only. By the 

author of “ Dora Thorne ”... 20 

77 A Tale of Two Cities. By Chas. 

Dickens . 15 

38 Madcap Violet By Wm. Black 20 


NO. PMCH 

79 Wedded and Parted. By the 

author of ” Dora Thorne ”... 10 

80 June. By Mrs. Forrester. .....20 

81 A Daughter of Heth. By Wm. 

Black 20 

82 Sealed Lips. By Fortun6 Du 

Boisgobey 20 

83 A Strange Story. By Sir E. Bul- 

wer Lytton 20 

84 Hard Times. By Charles Dick- 

ens 10 

85 A Sea Queen. By W, Clark 

Russell 20 

86 Belinda. By Rhoda Broughton 20 

87 Dick Sand; or, A Captai^a at 

Fifteen. By Jules Verne 20 

88 The Privateersman. By Cap- 

tain Marryat 20 

89 The Red Eric. By R. M. Ballan- 

tyne 10 

90 Ernest Maltravers. By Sir E. 

Bnlwer Lytton 20 

91 Barnaby Rudge. By Charles 

Dickens 20 

92 Lord Lynne’s Choice. By the 

author of ‘‘ Dora Thorne ”. .. 10 


93 Anthony Trollope’s Autobiogra- 


phy 20 

94 Little Dorrit. By Charles Dick- 
ens. First half 20 

94 Little Dorrit. By Charles Dick- 

ens. Second half 20 

95 The Fire Brigade. By R. M. 

Ballan tyne 10 

96 Erling the Bold. By R. M. Bal- 

lantyne ... 10 

97 All in a Garden Fair. By Walter 

Besant 20 

98 A Woman-Hater. By Charles 

Reade 15 

99 Barbara’s Histoiy. By Amelia 


By Jules Verne 20 

101 Second Thoughts. By' Rhoda 

Broughton 20 

102 The Moonstone. By Wilkie 

Collins 15 

103 Rose Fleming. By Dora Russell 10 

104 The Coral Pin. By F. Du Bois- 

gobey 30 

105 A Noble Wife. By John Saun- 

ders 20 

106 Bleak House. By Charles Dick- 


w 

107 Dombey and Son. By Charles 

Dickens 40 

108 The Cricket on the Hearth, and 

Doctor Marigold. By Charles 
Dickens 10 

109 Little Loo. By W. Clark Rus- 

sell 20 

110 Under the Red Flag. By Miss 

M. E. Braddon 10 

111 The Little School-master Mark. 

By J. H. Shorthouse It 

112 The Waters of Marah. By John 

Hill - 80 


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116 Moths. By “ Ouida ” 20 

117 A Tale of the Shore and Ocean. 

By W. H. G. Kingston 20 

118 Loys, Lord Berresford. and Eric 

Dering. By “ The Duchess ” . 10 

119 Monica, and A Rose Distill’d, 

By “ The Duche.ss ” 10 

120 Tom Brown’s School Days at 

Rugby. By Thomas Hughes 20 

121 Maid of Athens. By Justin Mc- 

Carthy 20 

122 lone Stewart. By Mrs. E. Lynn 

Linton 20 

123 Sweet is True Love. By “ The 

Duchess” 10 

124 Three Feathers. By William 

Black 20 

125 The Monarch of Mincing Lane. 

By William Black 20 

126 Kilmeny. By William Black. . . 20 
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128 Afternoon, and Other Sketches. 

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129 Rossmoyne. By “ The Duch- 

©ss 10 

130 The Last of tl'ie Barons. By 

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131 Our .Mutual Friend. By Charles 

Dickens 40 

132 Master Humphrey’s Clock. By 

Charles Dickens 10 

133 Peter the Whaler. By W. H. G. 

Kingston 10 

134 The Witching Hour. By “ The 

Duchess” 10 

135 A Great Heiress. By R. E. Fran- 

cillou 10 

136 ‘‘That Last Rehearsal.” By 

‘‘ The Duchess ” 10 

137 Uncle Jack. By Walter Besaut 10 

138 Green Pastures and Piccadilly. 

By William Black 20 

139 The Romantic Adventures of a 

Milkmaid. By Thomas Hardy 10 

140 A Glorious Fortune. By Walter 

Besant 10 

141 She Loved Him I By Annie 

Thomas 10 

142 Jenifer. By Annie Thomas .. . 20 

143 One False, Both Fair. J. B. 

Harwood 20 

144 Promises of Marriage, By 

Emile Gaboriau 10 

145 ‘‘ Storm-Beaten :” God and The 

Man. By Robert Buchanan.. 20 

146 Love Finds the Way. By Walter 

Besant and James Rice 10 

147 Rachel Ray. By Anthony Trol- 

lope 20 

148 Thorns and Orange-Blossoms. 

^ the author of ‘‘ Dora 
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149 The Captain’s Daughter. From 

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150 For Himself Alone. By T. W. 

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151 The Ducie Diamonds. By 0. 

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152 The Uncommercial Traveler. 

By Charles Dickens 20 

lo3 The Golden Calf. By Miss M. E. 
Braddon 20 

154 Annan Water. By Robert Bu- 

chanan 20 

155 Lady Muriel’s Secret. By Jean 

Middlemas. 20 

156 ‘‘ For a Dream’s Sake.” By Mrs. 

Herbert Martin 20 

1.57 Milly’s Hero. By F. W. Robin- 
son 20 

158 The Starling. By Norman Mac- 

leod, D.D 10 

1.59 A Moment of Madness, and 
Other Stories. By Florence 
Marryat 10 

160 Her Gentle Deeds. By Sarah 

Tytler 10 

161 The Lady of Lyons. Founded 

on the Play of that title by 
Lord Lytton 10 

162 Eugene Aram. By Sir E. Bui- 

wer Lytton 20 

163 Winifred Powder. By Joyce Dar- 

rell SO 

164 Leila : or. The Siege of Grenada. 

By Sir E. Bui wer Lytton 10 

165 The History of Henry Esmond. 

By William MakepeacejThack- 
eray 20 

166 Moonshine and Marguerites. By 

‘‘ The Duchess ” 10 

167 He.art and Science. By Wilkie 

Collins 20 

168 No Thoroughfare. By Charles 

Dickens and Wilkie Collins... 10 

169 The Haunted Man. By Charles 

Dickens 10 

170 A Great Treason. By Mary 

Hoppus 30 


171 Fortune’s Wheel, and Other 

Stories. By ‘‘ The Duchess ” 10 

172 “ Golden Girls.” By Alan Muir 20 
170 The Foreigners. By Eleanor C. 

Price 20 

174 Under a Ban. B.y Mrs. Lodge.. ^ 

175 Love’s Random Siiot, and Other 

Stories. By Wilkie Collins. .. 10 

176 An April Day. By Philippa P. 

Jephson lO 

177 Salem Chapel. By Mrs^Oliphant 2(1 

178 More Leaves from the Journal 

of a Life in the Highlands. By 
Queen Victoria 10 

179 Little Make-Believe. By B. L. 

Farjeon 10 

180 Round the Galley Fire. By W. 

Clark Russell lO 

181 The New Abelard. By Robert 

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182 The Millionaire. A Novel..... . 20 


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113 Mrs. Carr’s Companion. By M. 

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115 Dianionrl Cut Diamond. By T. 

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116 Moths. 13y“Ouida” 20 

117 A Tale of the Sliore and Ocean. 

By W. II. G. Kingston 20 

118 Loys, Lord Berresfoi-d. and Eric 

Dering. By 4’he Duchess ”. 10 

119 Monica, and A Rose Distill’d. 

By “ The Duchess ” 10 

120 Tom Brown’s School Days at 

Rugby. By Thomas Hughes 2) 

121 Maid of Athens. By Justin Mc- 

Carthy 2C 

122 lone Stewart. By Mrs. E. Lynn 

Linton 20 

123 Sweet is True Love. By “ The 

Duchess” 10 

124 Three Feathers. By William 

Blade 20 

125 The Moiiarcli of Mincing Lane. 

By AVilliam Black 20 

126 Kilmeuy. By William Black. . . 20 

127 Adrian Bright. By Mrs. Caddy 20 

12S Afternoon, and Other Sketches. 

By “Ouida” 10 

120 Rossmoyne. By ” The Duch- 
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130 The Last of the Barons. By 

Sir E. BulwerLytton 40 

131 Our .Mutual Friend. By Ctiaries 

Dickens 40 

132 Master Humphrey’s Clock. By 

Charles Dickens 10 

133 Peter the Whaler. By AV. H. G. 

Kingston 10 

134 The AVitchiug Hour. By “Tlie 

Duchess” 10 

135 A Great Heiress. By R. E. Fran- 

cillon 10 

136 “That Last Rehearsal.” By 

“ The Duchess ” 10 

137 Uncle Jack. By AValter Besant 10 
13S G)-een Pastures and Piccadilly. 

Bv William Black 20 

139 The Romantic Adventures of a 

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140 A Glorious Fortune. ByA'Talter 

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141 She Loved Him! By Annie 

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142 Jenifer. By Annie Thomas — 20 

143 One False, Both Fair. J. B. 

Harwood 20 

144 Promises of Marriage. By 

Emile Gaboriau 10 

145 “ Storm-Beaten :” God and The 

Man. By Robert Buchanan . . 20 

146 Love Finds the AAXV- ByAV^alter 

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147 Rachel Ray. By Anthony Trol- 

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148 Thorns and Orange-Blossoms. 

By the author of “ Dora 
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NO. PRICK. 

149 The Captain’s Daughter. From 

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1.50 For Himself Alone. By T. AV. 

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1.51 The Ducie Diamonds. By C. 

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152 The Uncommercial Traveler. 

By Charles Dickens 20 

153 The Golden Calf. By MissM. E. 

Braddon 20 

154 Annan Water. By Robert Bu- 

chanan 20 

155 Lady Mm-iel’s Secret. By Jean 

Middlemas 2) 

156 “ For a Dream's Sake.” Bj' Mrs. 

Herbert Martin 20 

157 Milly’s Hero. By F. AV. Robin- 

son 20 

158 The Starling. By Norman Mac- 

leod, D.D 10 

1.59 A Moment of Madness, and 
Other Stories. By Florence 
Marry at 10 

160 Her Gentle Deeds. By Sarah 

Tytler 10 

161 The Lady of Lyons. Founded 

on the Plaj' of that title by 
Lord Lytton 10 

162 Eugene Aram. By Sir E. Bul- 

wer Lytton 20 

163 AViuifred Pow^er. Bj^ Jovee Dar- 

rell 20 

164 Leila ; or, The Siege of Grenada. 

By Sir E. Biilwer Lytton 10 

165 The History of Henry Esmond. 

By AVilliam Makepeace.Thack- 

eray 20 

IGG Mooiisliine and Marguerites. By 

“The Duchess” 10 

167 Heart and Science. By AATlkie 

Collins 20 

168 No Thoroughfare. By Charles 

Dickens and AViikie Collins... 10 

169 The Haunted Man. By Charles 

Dickens 10 

170 A Great Treason. B3' Mary 

Hoppus 30 

171 Fortune’s Wheel, and Other 

Stories. By “The Duchess” 10 

172 “ Golden Girls.” By Alan Muir 20 
17.3 The Foreigners. By Eleanor C. 

Price 20 

174 Under a Ban. By Mrs. Lodge.. 20 

175 Love’s Random Shot, and Other 

Stories. By AViikie Collins... 14 

176 An Api il Day. By Philippa P. 

Jephson 10 

177 Salem Chapel. By Mrs.Oliphant 2C 

178 More Leaves from the Journal 

of aLifeinthePIighlands. By 
Queen Victoria 10 

179 Little Make-Believe. By B. L. 

Farjeon 10 

180 Round the Galley Fire. By W. 

Clark Russell 10 

181 The New Abelard. By Robert 

Buchanan 10 

182 The Millionaire. A Novel 80 


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183 Old Contrairy, and Other Sto- 220 
Ties. By Florence Marryat. . . 10 
181 Thirlby Hall. By W. E. Norris. 20 221 

185 Dita. By Lady Margaret Ma- 

jendie 10 222 

186 The Canon’s Ward. By James 223 

Payu 20 

187 The Midnight Sun. By Fredrika 224 

Bremer 10 

188 Idonea. By Anne Beale 20 225 

189 Valerie’s Fate. Mrs. Alexander 5 226 

190 Romance of a Black Veil. By 227 

the aiithor of “ Dora Thorne ” 10 228 

191 Harry Lorrequer. By Charles 

Lever 15 229 

192 At the World’s Mercy. By F. 

. Warden 10 2^10 

193 The Rosary Folk. By G. Man- 

ville Feun 10 231 

194 “ So Near, and Yet So Far !” By 232 

Alison 10 

195 “ The Way of the World.” By 233 

David Christie Murray. 15 

196 Hidden Perils. By Mary Cecil 234 

Hay 10 

197 For Her Dear Sake. By Mary 235 

Cecil Hay 20 

198 A Husband’s Story. 10 236 

199 The Fisher Village. By Anne 

Beale 10 237 

200 An Old Man’s Love. By An- 

thony Trollope 10 238 

201 The Monastery. By Sir Walter 239 

Scott 20 240 

202 The Abbot. By Sir Walter Scott 20 241 

203 John Bull and His Island. By 

Max O’Rell ...... 10 242 

204 Vixen. By Miss M. E. Braddon 15 243 

205 The Minister’s Wife. By Mrs. 

Oliphaut... 30 243 

206 The Picture, and Jack of All 

Trades. By Charles Reade . . 10 244 

207 Pretty Miss Neville. By B. M. 

Crdker 15 245 

208 The Ghost of Charlotte Cray, 

and Other Stories. By Fldr- 246 
ence Marryat 10 . 

209 John Holdsworth, Chief Mate. 247 

By W. Clark Russell 10 

210 Readiana: Comments on Cur- 248 

rent Events. By Chas. Reade 10 

211 The Octoroon. By Miss M. E. 249 

Braddon 10 

212 Charles O’Malley, the Irish Dra- 250 

goon. By Chas. Lever (Com- 
plete in one volume) 30 

213 A Terrible Temptation. Chas. 251 

Reade 15 

214 Put Yourself in His Place. By 

Charles Reade 20 252 

215 Not Like Other Girls. By Rosa 253 

Nouchette Carey 15 254 

21 6 Foul Play. By Charles Reade. 15 

217 ’J’lie Man She Cared For. By 

F. W. Robinson 15 255 

218 Agnes Sorel. By G. P. It. James 15 

219 Lady Clare; or, ’I’he Master of 256 

the Forges By Georges Ohuet 10 


PRICE. 

Which Loved Him Best? By 
the author of “ Dora Thorne ” 10 
Coinin’ Thro’ the Rye. By 

Helen B. Mathers 15 

The Sun-Maid. By Miss Grant 15 
A Sailor’s Sweetheart. By W. 

Clark Russell 15 

The Arundel Motto. Mary Cecil 

Hay 15 

The Giant’s Robe. ByF. Anstey 15 

Fi'iendship. By”Ouida” 20 

Nancy. By Rhoda Broughton. 15 
Princess Napraxine. By “ Oui- 

da” 20 

Maid, Wife, or AVidow? By 

Mrs. Alexander 10 

Dorothy Forster. By AValter 

Griffith Gaunt. Charles Reade 15 
Love and Money ; or, A Perilous 
Secret. By Charles Reade. . . 10 
‘‘ I Say No or, the Love-Letter 
Answered. Wilkie Collins.... 15 
Barbara; or. Splendid Misery. 

Miss M. E. Braddon 15 

” It is Never Too Late t-o 
Mend.” By Charles Reade. . . 20 
AVhicli Shall It Be? Mrs. Alex- 
ander 20 

Repented at Leisure. By the 
author of “ Dora Thorne ”... 15 

Pascarel. By‘‘Ouida” 20 

Signa. By “ Ouida ” 20 

Called Back. By Hugh Conway 10 
The Baby’s Grandmother. By 

L. B. AValford 10 

The Two Orphans. ByD’Ennei'.y 10 
Tom Burke of “Ours.” First 

half. By Charles Lever 20 

Tom Burke of “ Ours.” Second 

half. By Charles Lever 20 

A G reat Mistake. By the author 

of “ His Wedded Wife ” 20 

Miss Tommy, and In a House- 

Boat. By Miss Mulock 10 

A Fatal Dower. By the author 

of “ His Wedded Wife ” 10 

The Armourer’s Prentices. By 

Charlotte M. Yonge 10 

The House on the Marsh. F. 

AVarden 10 

“ Prince Charlie’s Daughter.” 

By author of “ Dora Thorne ” 10 
Sunshine and Roses; or, Di- 
ana’s Discipline. By the au- 
thor of “ Dora Thorne ” 10 

The Daughter of the Stars, and 
Other Tales. By Hugh Con- 
waj% author of “Called Back” 1C 
A Sinless Secret. By “Rita”.. 18 
The Amazon. By Carl Vosmaer 10 
The Wife’s Secret, and Fair but 
False. By the author of 

“ Dora Thorne ” 10 

The Mystery. By Mrs. Henry 

AVood 

Mr. Smith : A Part of His Life. 

By L. B. A’^alford If 


rHE SEASIDE LIBRARY. — Pocket Edition 


20 

20 




10 

10 


10 

10 

20 


NO. PRICE. 

257 Beyond Recall. B}' Adeline Ser- 

fjeaiit 10 

258 Cousins. By L. B. Walford 20 

250 The Bride of’ ]\lonte-(5 isto. (A 

Sequel to “ Tlie Count of 
IMonce-Cristo,’' By Alexander 
Dumas ]() 

260 Proper Pride. l>v B. M. Croker 10 

261 A Fair Maid. By F. W. Robinson 

262 Tlie Count of Monte-Cristo. 

Parti By Alexander Dumas 

262 Tlie Count of Monte Crislo. 

Part II. By Alexander Dumas 

263 An Ishmaelite. By Miss M. E. 

Braddou ... 15 

264 Pi6donclie, A French Detective. 

ByFortun6 1)u Boisgobey 10 

265 Judith Shakespeai’e : Her Love 

Affairs and Other Adventures. 

By VVilliani Black 15 

266 'Pile Water-Babies. A Fairy Tale 

for a Land-Baby. By tlie Rev. 
Charles Kiugsre3’ 10 

267 liaiirel Vane; or, 'Phe Girls’ 

Conspiracy. By Mrs. Alex. 
lileVeigh Miller 20 

268 Lady Gay’s Pride; or. The 

Miser's Treasure. By Mrs. 

Alex. McVeigh "Miller 20 

260 I^ancaster’s Clioice. By Mrs. 

Alex. McVeigh Miller 20 

2:0 The Wandering Jew. Part I. 

By Eugene Sue 20 

210 The Wandering Jew. Part II. 

By Eugene Sue 20 

271 The Mysteries of Paris. Parti. 

By Ehigene Sue 20 

1 The Mysteries of I’aris. Part II. 

By Eugene Sue 20 

272 The J.ittle Savage. B3' Captain 

Marryat 10 

273 Love and Mirage ; or, The Wait- 

ing on an Island. B3" M. 

Betham Edwards 10 

27 1 Alice, Grand Duchess of Ile.sse, 
Princess of Great Britain and 
Ireland. Biographical Sketch 
and I.etters 

275 The Three Brides. Charlotte M. 

Yonge 

276 Under the Lilies and Roses. By 

Iflorence Manyat (Mrs. Fran- 
cis Lean) 10 

277 The Surgeon’s Daughters. By 

Mrs. Heniy Wood. A Man of 
His Word. By W. E. Norris. 

278 For Life and Love. By Alison. 

27'9 IJttle Goldie. Mrs. Sumner Hay- 
den 

280 Omnia Vanitas. A Tale of So- 

ciety. By I\lrs. I’orrester. — 10 

281 The Squire’s Legacy. By Mary 

Cecil Hay 15 

282 Donal Grant. By George Mac- 

Donald 15 

28.3 The Sin of a Lifetime. By the ■ 
author of “ Dora Thorne ”... 10 
884 Doris. By ” The Duchess ” , . 10 


NO. pRica. 

285 The Gambler’s Wife 20 

286 Deldee ; or, The Iron Hand. By 

F'. Warden 20 

287 At War With Herself. By the 

author of ” Dora Thorne ”. . . 10 

288 From Gloom to Sunlight. By 

the author of “ Dora Thorne ” 10 

289 John Bull’s Neighbor in Her 

True Light. By a “Brutal 
Saxon ” i(j 

290 Nora’s Love Test. B\' Mary Cecil 

Hay OQ 

291 Love’s Warfare. By the author 

of “ Dora Thorne ” 10 

292 A Golden Heart. B3' the author 

of “Dora Thorne” 10 

293 The Shadow of a Sin. I5y the 

author of “ Dora Thorne ”... 10 

294 Hilda. By the author of “ Dora 

Thorne” 10 

295 A Woman’s War. By the author 

of “ Dora Thorne ” 10 

296 A Ro.^e in Thorns. B3' the au- 

thor of “ Dora 'Phorne ” 10 

297 Hilary’s Folly. B3' the author 

of “ Dora Thorne ” 10 

298 Mitchellmrst Place. B3' Marga- 

ret Vele3’’ 10 

299 The Fatal Lilies, and A Bride 

from the Sea. By the author 
of “Dora Thorne” 10 

300 A Gilded Sin, and A Bridge of 

Love. By the author of “ Dora 
Tliorue ” 10 

301 Dark Days. B3f Hugh Conway. 10 

302 The Blatchford Bequest. B3' 

Hugh Conway 10 

303 Ingledew House, and More Bit- 

terthan Death. B3' the author 
of “Dora Thorne” 10 

304 In Cnjiid’s Net. By tlie author 

of “ Dora Thorne ” 10 

305 A Dead Heart, and Lad3' Gwen- 

doline's Dream. By the au- 
thor of “Dora Thorne” 10 

306 A Golden Da wn, and Love for a 

Da3'. By the author of “ Dora 
Thorue ” 10 

307 Two Kisses, and Like No Other 

Love. By the author of “ Dora 
Thorne” 10 

308 Beyond Pardon 20 

309 The Pathfinder. By J. Feni- 

more Cooper 20 

310 The Brail ie. By J. Fen i more 

Cooper 2® 

311 Two Years Before the Mast. B3' 

R. H. Dana. Jr 2f 

312 A Week in Killarney. By “ The 

Duchess” Ifi 

313 Tlie Lover's Creed. By Mrs. 

Cashel Hoey 15 

314 Peril. B3’ Jessie Fothergill 20 

315 The Jlistletoe Bough. Edited 

by Miss M. E. Braddon 20 

316 Sworn to Silence ; or. Aline Rod- 

ney’s Secret. By Mrs. Alex. 
McVeigh Miller SO 


FHE SEASIDE LIBRARY— Poclcet EditioiL 


NO. PRICK. 

817 By Mead and Stream. Charles 

Gibbon 20 

'>18 Tlie Pioneers; or, The Sources 
of the Susqiielianna. By J. 

Feniniore Cooper 20 

219 Face to Face : A Fact in Seven 

Fables. By R. E. Fraucillon. 10 

820 A Bit of Human Nature. By 

David Christie Murray. 10 

321 The Prodigals: And Their In- 
heritance. By Mrs. Oliphaut 10 

J22 A. Woman’s Love-Story 10 

823 A Willful Maid 20 

821 III Luck at Last. By Walter 

Besant 10 

825 Tile Portent. By George Mac- 

donald . - 10 

826 Phantastes. A Faerie Romance 

for Men and Women. By 

George Macdonald... 10 

927 Rijmiond’s Atonement. (From 
the German of E. Werner.) 

By Christina Tyrrell..., . 20 

328 Babiole, the Pretty Milliner. By 

F. Du Boisgoney. First half 20 
628 Babiole, the Pretty Milliner. By 

F. Du Boisgobey. Second half 20 

329 The Polish Jew. ByErckmauu 


Chatrian ...... .... . . 10 

350 Ma 5 ^ Blossom ; or, Between Two 

Loves. By Margaret Lee . 20 

831 Gerald. By Eleanor O. Price . 20 

832 Judith "Wynne. A Novel. . - 20 

8‘J3 Frank Fairlegh ; or, Scenes 

from the Life of a Private 
Pupil. By Frank E. Smedley 20 
834 A Marriage of Convenience. By 
Harriett Jay.. 10 

335 The White Witch, A Novel... 20 

336 Philistia. B}' Cecil Power 20 

837 Memoirs and Resolutions of 

Adam Graeme of Mossgray, 
Including Some Chronicles of 
the Borough of Fendie. By 
Mrs. Olipbant 20 

838 The Family Difficulty. By Sarah 

Doudney.. 10 

839 Mrs. Vereker’s Courier Maid. 

By Mrs. Alexander 10 

340 Under Which King? By Comp- 

ton Reade 20 

341 Madolin Rivers; or, The Little 

Beauty of Red Oak Seminary. 

By Laura Jean Libbey ... 20 

842 The Baby, and One New Year’s 

Eve. By “The Duchess”.... 10 

843 The Talk of the Town. By 

James Payn . 20 

344 “ The Wearing of the Green.” 

By Basil 20 

845 Madam. By Mrs. Oliphant ^ 

8i6 Tumbledown Farm. By Alan 

Muir 10 

347 As Avou Flows. By Henry Scott 

Vince 20 

1148 From Post to Finish, A Racing 


Romance. By Hawley Smart 20 


NO. PRIOR 


349 The Two Admirals. A Tale of 

the Sea. By J. Fenimore 
Cooper 28 

350 Diana of the Crossways. By 

George Meredith 1(1 

851 The House on the Moor. By 
Mrs. Oliphaut 20 

352 At Any Cost. By Edward Gar- 

rett 10 

353 The Black Dwarf, and A Leg- 

end of Montrose. Bj'^ Sir Wal- 
ter Scott 20 

354 The Lottery of Life. A Story 

of New York Twenty Years 
Ago. By John Brougham... 20 

355 That Terrible Man. By W. E. 

Norris. The Princess Dago- 
mar of Poland. By Heinrich 
Felbermann.., 10 

356 A Good Hater. By Frederick 

Boyle 20 

357 John. A Love Story. By Mrs. 

Oliphaut 20 

358 Within the Clasp. B)’ J. Ber- 

wick Harwood 20 

359 The IVater-Witch. By J. Feni- 

more Cooper 20 

360 Ropes of Sand. By R. E. Fran- 

cillon .. 20 

361 The Red Rover. A Tale of the 

Sea. By J. Fenimore Cooper 20 

362 The Bride of Larnmermoor, 

By Sir Walter Scott 20 

363 The Surgeon’s Daughter. By 

Sir Walter Scott 10 

364 Castle Dangerous. By Sir W"al- 

ter Scott 10 

365 George Christy; or. The Fort- 

unes of a Minstrel. By Tony 
Pastor 20 

366 The Mysterious Hunter; or, 

The ]\Ian of Death. B}- Capt. 

L. C. Carleton 20 


367 Tie and Trick. By Hawley Smart 20 

368 The Southern Star ; or. The Dia- 

mond Land. By Jules Verne 20 

369 Miss Brethertou. By Mrs. Hum- 

phry Ward 10 

370 Lucy Crof ton. By Mrs. Oliphant 10 

371 Margaret Maitland. By Mrs. Oli- 

phant 20 

372 Phyllis’ Probation. By the au- 

thor of “ His Wedded Wife 10 

373 Wiug-and-Wing. J. Fenimore 

Cooper, 

374 The Dead Man’s Secret; or. The 

Adventures of a Medical Stu 
dent. By Dr. Jupiter Paeon.. 20 

375 A Ride to Khiva. By Capt. Fred 

Burnaby, of the Royal Horse 


Guards 20 

376 The Crime of Christmas-Day. 

By the author of “ My Duc- 
ats and My Daughter 10 

377 Magdalen Hepburn : A Story 

of the Scottish Reformation. 

B 3 ’ Mrs. Oliphaut... 2U 


THE SEASIDE 


LIBRARY.— Pocket Edition. 


NO. PRTCE. 

378 Homeward Bound; or, The 
Chase. J. Fenimore Cooper. . 20 
370 Home as Found. (Sequel to 
“ Homeward Bound.”) By J. 
EYnimore Cooper 20 

380 'Wyandotte; or. The Hutted 

Knoll. J. Fenimore Cooper. . 20 

381 The Red Cardinal. B3" Frances 

Elliot 10 

382 Three Sisters; or. Sketches of 

a Highly Original Famil}'. 

By Elsa D'Esterre-Keeling. . . 10 
Stvl Introduced to Society. By Ham- 
ilton A'id6 10 

3S1 On Horseback Through Asia 

Minor. Capt. Fred Burnabj-. 20 
385 The Headsman; or, Tlio Abbaye 
des Vignerons. By J. Feni- 
more Cooper 20 

-386 Led Astray ; or. “La Petite Comt- 
esse.” Bj' Octave E’euillet. . . 10 
387 The Secret of the Cliffs. By 

Charlotte French 20 


388 Addie's Husband; or, Through 


Cllouds to Sunshine. By the 
author of “ Love or Lands?” 10 
380 Toll abod. B\' Bertha Thomas.. . 10 

390 Mildred Trevaniou. By “ The 

Huchess ” 10 

301 The Heart of i\Iid-Lothian. By 

Sir Walter Scott .’. 20 

302 Peveril of the Peak. By Sir Wal- 

ter Scott 20 

303 The Pirate. B.y Sir Walter Scott 20 

391 The Bravo. By J. Fenimore 

Cooper 20 

395 The Archipelago on Fire. By 

Jules Vei’ue 10 

306 Robert Ord's Atonement. B.v 

Rosa Nouchette Carey 20 

307 Lionel Lincoln ; or. The Leaguer 

of Boston. B.y J. Fenimore 

Cooper 20 

398 Matt: A 'Pale of a Caravan. 

By Robert Buchanan 10 

300 Jliss Brown. B.v Vernon L('e.. 20 

400 The Wejit of Wish-Tou-Wish. 

B\' J. Fenimore Cooper 20 

401 Waverle}'. B.y Sir Walter Scott 20 

402 Lilliesleaf; or, I’.as.sages in the 

Life of IMrs. Jlargaret illait- 
land of Sunnyside. Bj- .5Irs. 
Oliphaiit 20 

403 An English Squire. C. R. Cole- 

ridge 20 

404 In Durance Vile, and Other 

Stories. B.v “ The Duchess”. 10 

405 Mv Friends and I. Edited by 

Julian Sturgis 10 

406 The Merchant’s Clerk. Bv Sam- 

uel Warren 10 

407 Tylne^' Hall. B.y Thomas Hood 20 

408 Lester’s Secret. Bv Mary Cecil 

Hay ■ 20 

400 Rov's Wile By G. J. Whyfe- 

Melville .' 20 

410 Old' ]..a(l.y Mary. B3' Mi'S. Oli- 

phant 10 

(' 


NO. PRICE. 


411 A Bitter Atonement. B.v Char- 

lotte M. Braeme, author of 
“ Dora Thorne ” 20 

412 Some One Else. B.y B. M. Croker 20 

413 Afloat and Ashore. By J. Feni- 

more Cooper 20 

414 Miles Wallingford. (Sequel to 

“ Afloat and Ashore.”) Bj* J. 
Fenimore Cooper 20 

415 The Ways of the Hour. B^- J. 

Fenimore Cooper 20 

416 Jack Tier; or. The Florida Reef. 

Bj’ J. Fenimore Cooper 20 

417 The Fair Maid of Perth ; or, St. 

Valentine's Day, By Sir Wal- 
ter Scott 20 

418 St. Ronan’s Well. By Sir Wal- 

ter Scott 20 

419 The Chainbearer ; or. The Little- 

page Manuscripts. By J. 
Fenimore Cooper 20 

420 Satanstoe; or. The IJttlepage 

JIanuscripts. B.y J. Fenimore 
Cooper 20 


421 The Redskins; or, Indian and 

Injin. Being the conclusion 
of The Littlepage Manu- 
scripts. J. Fenimore Cooper 20 

422 Precaution. J.Fenimore Cooper 20 

423 The Sea-Lions; or. The Lost 

Sealers. J. Fenimox'e Cooper 20 
42-1 Mercedes of Castile; or. The 


Voj'age to Cathay. By J. 
Fenimore Cooper 20 

425 The Oak Openings,; or. The Bee- 

Hunter. J. Fenimore Cooper. 20 

426 Venus’s Doves. By Ida Asli- 

worth Taylor 20 

427 The Remarkable History of Sir 

Thomas Upmore, Bart., M.P., 
form^idy known as “ Tommy 
Upmore.” R. D. Blackmore. 20 

428 Z^M-o: A Story of Monte-Carlo. 

B.y Mrs. Campbell Praed 10 

429 Boiilderstone; or, New Men and , 

Old Populations. By Wiliam 
Sime 10 

430 A Bitter Reckoning. By the 

author of “By Crooked Paths” 10 

431 The Monikins. By J. E’euimore 

Cooper 20 

432 The Witch’s Head. By H. Rider 

Haggard 20 

433 lily Sister Kate. B.y Charlotte 

.M. Braeme, author of “ Dora 
Thorne,” and A Rainj' June. 

By “Ouida” 10 

434 Wyilard’s Weird. By Miss M. 

E. Braddon 20 

435 Klytia: A Story of Heidelberg 

Castle. By George Taylor.. . . 20 

436 Stella. Bv Fanny Lewald 20 

437 Life and Adventures of Martin 

Chuzzlewit. B.v (,‘harles Dick- 
ens. First half 20 

437 IJfeand Adventures of Martin 
Chuzzlewit. By Charles Dick- 
ens. Second half 20 


') 


THE SEASIDE LIliRARY.-rocket Edilioii. 


NO. PHICE. 

438 Found Out. Helen B. IVIatlier-s. 10 

439 Great Expectations. By Chas. 

Dickens 20 

440 Mrs. Lirriper’s Lodgings. By 

Charles Dickens 10 

441 A Sea Change. By Flora L. 

Shaw 20 

412 Ranthorpe. By George Henry 

Lewes 20 

44.3 The Bachelor of 'Die Albany. . . 10 
444 The Heart of .I;ine Warner. ' By 

Florence Marry at 20 

415 The Shadow of a Crime. B3' 
Hall Caine 20 

446 Dame Dnrde»i. By “ Rita” 20 

447 American Notes. By Charles 

Dickens 20 

448 Pictures From Italy, and The 

Mud fog Papers. &c. By Chas. 
Dickens 20 

449 Peeress and Plaj'er. By Flor- 

ence Marr vat 20 

450 Godfrey Helstone. ByGeorgiana 

M. Craik 20 

451 M.'irket Harborough, and Inside 

the Bar. By G. J. Whyte- 
Melville 30 


NO. PRICE. 

452 In the West Countrie. By May 

Crommelin 20 

453 The Lottery Ticket. By F. Du 

Boisgobey 20 

4.54 The Jlystery of Edwin Drood. 

By Charles Dickens 20 

455 Lazarus in London. By F. W. 

Robinson 20 


45G Sketches by Boz. Illustrative of 
Every-day Life and Every-day 
People. By Charles Dickens. 20 
4.57 The Russians at the Gates of 

Herat. By Charles Marvin . .. 10 
459 A Woman's Temptation. By 
Charlotte M. Braeme, author 

of “ Dora Thorne ” 20 

400 Under a. Shado\t. By Charlotte 
M. Braeme, author of ” Dora 
Thorne” 20 

405 The Earl's Atonement. By Char- 

lotte M. Braeme, author of 
“ Doi a 'I'liorne ” 20 

406 Between Two Loves. By Char- 

lotte M. Braeme, author of 
‘‘ Dora Thorne ” 20 


M U N R O ’ S PUBLICATIONS 


OLD SLEUTH LIBRARY. 


A Series of the Most Thrilling Detective Stories Ever Published ! 


The following books are now ready. Others of this series in 

preparation. 


No. 1. OLI> SLUI TII TIIF. DETECTIVE. 

A dashing roiiiauce. (UMaiiing in grapliio style tlie hair-breadth escapes and 
thrilling adventures of a veteran agent of the law. 

No. THE KINO OV THE DETECTIVES. 

In this story the shrewdne.ss and cunning of a master mind are delineated 

in a fascinating manner.- 

No. 3.— OLD SLEUTH’S TIM U3I I’ll. 

IN TWO HALVES— 10 CENTS EACH. 

'I'he crowning triumph of the great detectiv(‘'s active career is reached after 
undergoing many exciting perils and dangers. 

No. I. UNDER A MIIililON DISCHIISES. 

The many subterfuges by which a detective tracks his game to justice are 
all ilescribed in a graphic manner in tliis great story. 

No. 5. NIGHT SCENES IN NEW YORK. 

An absorbing story of life after dark in the gi’eat metropolis. All the 
various features of metropolitan life— the places of amusement. Iiigh 
ami low life among the night-hawks of Gotham, etc., are realistically 
described in this delightful story. 

No. O.-OLD ELECTRICITV, THE LIGHTNING DETECTIVE. 

For ingenuity' of plot, quick and exciting succession of dramatic incidents, 
this great story has not an equal in the wliole range of detective literature. 

No. r.-TIIE SHADOW DETECTIVE. 

#niis tlirilling story is a masterpiece of entrancing fiction. The wonderful 
exploits and hair-breadth escapes of a clever law-agent are all described 
in brilliant style. 

No. 8.-RED LIGHT WILIi, THE RIVICR DETECTIVE. 

In this splendiil romance, lovers of the weird, exciting phases of life on the 
teeming docks and wharfs of a great city, will find a mine of thrilling 
interest. 

No. 9.-IRON BURGESS. THE GOVERNMENT DETECTIVE. 

The many sensational incidents of a detective’s life in chasing to cover i he 
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The above works are for sale by all newsdealers at 10 cents each, or 
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publisher. 

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P, O. Box :’md, 


MUNRO’S PUBLlCATlONb. 


THE sea™ library 

Oiei>l.^ARY El>lTION. 


GEORGE MUNRO, PUBLISHER, 

(P.O.Box 3751.) 17 to 27 Vandewater Street, N. Y. 


The following works contained in The Seaside Library, Ordinary Editinn, 
are for sale by all newsdealers, or will be sent to any address, postage fi'i'e, on 
receipt of 13 cents for single numbers, and 25 cents for double numbers, by the 
publisher. Parties ordering by mail toill please order by numbers. 


MRS. ALEXANDER’S WORKS. 

30 Her Dearest Foe 20 

36 The Wooing O’t 20 

46 Tlie Heritage of Langdale 20 

370 Ralpli Wilton’s Weird 10 

400 Wliich Shall it Be? 20 

532 Maid, Wife, or Widow 10 

1231 The Freres 20 % 

1259 Valerie’s Fate 10 

1391 Look Before You. Leap 20 

1502 The Australian Aunt 10 

1595 The Admiral’s AVard 20 

1721 The Executor 20 

1934 Mrs. Vereker’s Courier Maid 10 

AVILLIAM BLACK’S AYORKS. 

13 A Princess of Thule 20 

28 A Daughter of Heth 10 

47 In Silk Attire 10 

48 The Strange Adventures of a Phaeton 10 

51 Kilnieny ' iQ 

4 K 


TllM SEASIDE LIBliARY. - Ordi/ta?'// Edition. 


53 The Monarch of Mincing Lane . . 10 

79 Madcap Violet (small type) 10 

604 Madcap Violet (large type) 20 

242 The Three Feathers 10 

390 The IMarriage of Moira Fergus, and The Inlaid of Killccna. 10 

417 INIacleod of Dare 20 

451 Lady Silverdale’s Sweetheart 10 

568 Green Pastures and Piccadilly 10 

j 816 White Wings: A Yachting Romance 10 

j 826 Oliver Goldsmith 10 

950 Sunrise: A Story of These Times 20 

1025 The Pupil of Aurelius 10 

1032 That Beautiful Wretch 10 

1161 The Four MacNicols 10 

1264 Mr. Pisistratus Brown, M.P., in the Highlands 10 

1429 An Adventure in Thule. A Story for Young People 10 

1556 Shandon Bells . . 20 

1683 Yolande 20 

1893 Judith Shakespeare: Her Love Affairs and other Advent- 
ures 20 

MISS M. E. BRA^DDON’S WORKS. 

26 Aurora Floyd 20 

69 To the Bitter End 20 

89 The Lovels of Arden 20 

95 Dead Men’s Shoes 20 

109 Eleanor’s Victory 20 

114 Darrell Markham 10 

140 The Lady Lisle 10 

171 Hostages to Fortune 20 

190 Henry Dunbar 20 

215 Birds of Prey 20 

235 An Open Verdict 20 

251 Lady Audley’s Secret 20 

254 The Octoroon 10 

260 Charlotte’s Tnlierilance 20 

287 Leiiihton Grange 10 

295 Lost for Love 30 

322 Dead-S(‘a Fruit 20 

459 The Doctor’s Wife 20 

469 Rupert Godwin 20 


Tine leilASlDn UBRAliy.— ordinary PMition. 


481 Vixen 20 

482 The Cloven Foot 20 

500 Joshua Haggard’s Daughter 20 

519 Weavers and Weft 10 

525 Sir Jasper’s Tenant 20 

539 A Strange World 20 

550 Fenton’s Quest 20. 

562 John Marchmont’s Legacy 20 

572 The Lady’s Mile 2o 

579 Strangers and Pilgrims 20 

581 Only a Woman (Edited by ]\Iiss M. E. Braddou) 20 

619 Taken at the Flood 20 

641 Only a Clod 20 

649 Puhlicans and Sinners 20 

056 George Caulfield’s Journey 10 

665 The Shadow in ihc Corner 10 

666 Bound to John Company; or, Kobert Ainsleigh 20 

701 Barbara; or, Splendid Misery 20 

705 Put to the Test (Edited by Miss M. E. Braddon) 20 

734 Diavola; or, Nobody’s Daughter. Part 1 20 

734 Diavola; or, Nobody’s Daughter. Part II 20 

811 Dudlev Carleon 10 

828 The Fatal Marriage 10 

837 Just as I Am; or, A Living Lie 20 

942 Asphodel 20 

1154 The Mistletoe Bough 20 

1265 Mount Royal 26 

1469 Flower and Weed • 10 

1553 The Golden Calf 20 

1638 A Hasty Marriage (Edited by Miss M. E. Braddon) 20 

1715 Phantom Fortune 20 

1736 Under the Red Flag 10 

1877 An Ishmaclife 20 

1915 The jNlistletoe Bough. Christmas, 1884 (Edited by Miss 

M. E. Braddon) 20 

CHARLOTTE, EMILY, AND ANNE BRONTE’S WORKS. 

3 Jane Eyre (in small typo) 10 

396 Jane Eyre (in bold, handsome type) 20 

162 Shirley 20 

411 The Professor _ , ip 


TIlPj SEASIDK LIBRARY. — OrRnan/ Rdition, 


Wutheriiig Heights 10 

438 Villctte 20 

967 The Teuantof Wildfell Hall 20 

1098 Agnes Grey 20 

LUCY RANDALL COMFORT’S WORKS. 

495 Claire’s Love-Life 10 

552 Love at Saratoga 20 

672 Eve, Tlie Factory (Jirl 20 

716 Black Bell 20 

854 Corisande 20 

907 Three Sewing Girls 20 

1019 His First Love 20 

1133 Nina; or, The Mystery of Love 20 

1192 Vendetta; or, The Southern Heiress 20 

1254 Wild and Wilful 20 

1533 Elfrida; or, A Young Girl’s Love-Story 20 

1709 Love and Jealousy (illustrated) 20 

1810 Married for Money (illustrated) 20 

1829 Only Mattie Garland 20 

1830 Lottie and Victorine; or, Working their Own Way 20 

1834 Jew'el, the Heiress. A Girl’s Love Story 20 

1861 Love at Long Branch; or, Inez Merivalc’s Fortunes 20 

WILKIE COLLINS’ WORKS. 

10 The Woman in White 20 

14 The Dead Secret 20 

22 Man and Wife 20 

32 The Queen of Hearts 20 

38 Antonina 20 

42 Hide-and-Seek 20 

76 ThoNew Magdalen ■ 10 

94 The Law and The Lady 20 

180 Armadale 20 

191 My Lady’s Money 10 

225 The Two Destinies 10 

250 No Name 20 

286 After Dark • 10 

409 The Haunted Hotel 10 

433 A Shocking Story 10 

487 A Rogue’s Life 10 


TJIK SKASIDM LinilMlY. Ordwanj mtion. 


551 The Yellow Mask 10 

583 Fallen Leaves ~0 

G54 Poor Miss Finch 20 

G75 The Moonstone 20 

696 Jezebel’s Daughter 20 

713 The Captain’s Last Love 10 

731 Basil 20 

745 The Magic Spectacles 10 

905 Duel in Herne Wood 10 

938 Who Killed Zebedee? / 10 

971 The Frozen Deep 10 

990 The Black Kobe 20 

1164 Your Money or Your Life 10 

1544 Heart and Science. A Story of the Present 4'inic 30 

1770 Love’s Random Shot • 10 

1856 “I Say No” 20 

J. FENIMORE COOPER’S AVORKS. 

333 Last of the Mohicans 30 

334 The Deerslayer 30 

326 The Pathfinder 20 

229 The Pioneers 20 

331 The Prairie 20 

233 The Pilot 20 

585 The Water AVitch 20 

590 The Two Admirals 20 

615 The Red Rover 20 

761 AVing-and-AVing 20 

940 The Spy 20 

1066 The AVyandotte 20 

* 1357 Afloat and Ashore 30 

1362 Miles AVallingford (Sequel to “Afloat and Ashore”) 30 

lo69 The Headsman ; or, The Abbaye dcs A’iguerous 20 

lb05 The Mon ik ins 30 

1661 The Heidenmauer; or, The Benedictines. A Legend of 

the Rhine 30 

1691 The Crater; or, Vulcan’s Peak. A Tale of the Pacific 20 

CHARLES DICKENS’ WORKS. 

20 The Old Curiosity Shop 20 

100 A Tale of Two Cities 20 

103 Hard Times. 10 


THE SEASIDE IJBllARY.-Ovdinary Edition. 


118 Great Expectations 20 

187 David CoppeiTield 20 

200 Nicholas Nickleby 20 

213 Barnaby Budge 20 

218 Dombey and Son 20 

239 No Thoroughfare (Charles Dickens and Wilkie Collins) . > . 10 

247 Martin Chuzzlewit 2; 

272 The Cricket on the Hearth i :; 

284 Oliver Twist 

289 A Christmas Carol I*; 

297 The Haunted Man 10 

304 Little Dorrit 20 

308 The Chimes 10 

317 The Battle of Life 10 

325 Our Mutual Friend 20 

337 Bleak House 20 

352 Pickwick Papers 20 

359 Somebody’s Luggage 10 

367 Mrs. Lirriper’s Lodgings 10 

372 Lazy Tour of Two Idle Apprentices 10 

375 Mugby Junction - . 10 

403 Tom Tiddler’s Ground 10 

498 The Uncommercial Traveler 20 

521 Master Humphrey’s Clock 10 

625 Sketches by Boz 20 

639 Sketches of Young Couples 10 

827 The Mudfog Papers, &c 10 

860 The Mystery of Edwin Drood 20 

900 Pictures Fi om Italy 10 

1411 A Child’s History of England 20 

1464 The Picnic Papers 20 

1558 Three Detective Anecdotes, and Other Sketches 10 

WOBKS BY THE AUTHOR OF “DORA THORNE.” 

449 More Bitter than Death 10 

618 Madolin’s Lover 20 

656 A Golden Dawn 10 

678 A Dead Heart 10 

718 Lord Lynne’s Choice; or, True Love Never Runs Smooth. 10 

746 Which Loved Him Best 20 

846 Dora Thorne 20 

921 At War with Herself 10 

m- 




Ohi Tlio bin of n Lifetime . 

<013 Laii}’’ Q wendoiine’s Dream 10 

w<>'ib Wife m Nfitiie Oijfv 2(/ 

10^4 Like No Other L-->‘ ve - 10 

lOdO A Wonihii’s War c. . 10 

1072 Hilary’s Foil/ - c . 10 

1074 A Queen Arnu^l^■^t WvviAwL o,..*.. c .,<< c 10 

1077 A Gilded Sin....^ IG 

1081 A IlriOge of L.Ae.c ....o e... c .-.oo. 10 

1085 Tlie Fatal Lil les . 10 

1090 Wedded and ParieU c » . 10 

1107 A Bride From the bea . . 10 

illu A Bose in Thorns o... 10 

1115 The Shadow of a bin. ... . c. . 10 

1122 Redeenied by Love ,.o . 10 

1120 The Story of u Wedding-Bing. IC 

1127 Love’s Warfare '. 20 

1132 Repented at Leisure - 2o 

1179 From Gloom to Sunlight 20 

1209 Hilda 20 

12i8 A Golden tieari 20 

1266 Inglenew House . 10 

1288 A Broken Weddicg-King 20 

1305 Love For a Day; or, lindor the Lilacs. ...... ... iU 

1357 Tne Wife’s Seciet 10 

1303 T'wo Kisses 10 

1-160 Between Two Sins. 10 

1 0-10 The Cost of Her Love 20 

3664 Romance of a Black Veil.. o......... 20 

1 704 Her Mother’s bin 20 

i 761 Thorns and Orange Blossoms c . . . 20 

1814 Fair but F'alse, and The Heiress or Ante 10 

i383 Siinsiiine and Roses .oo., ... 20 

1906 In Cupid’s Net ... . ...o... 10 

ALEXANDER DUMAS’ WORKS 

144 The i win Li „u tenants. . . . iC 

I5l The Russian Gipsy . lO 

155 The Count of Monte-CflstOv<v«?'.7i-^L»'<5 m (/4iJ .... 20 

160 The Black Tulip io 

16V Tne Queeu’s Necklace. .... 2 & 


TUjS ShiAi^IhK LJhiiA ilY —Oraiuary KdUit/K. 


172 The Chevalier do MaisoTi Kongo 36 

184 The Countess de Cliarny 30 

188 Nanon ]0 

193 Josepli Balsarno; or, IVIemoirs of & Physician. 20 

194 The Conspirators 10 

198 Isabel of Bavaria. lo 

201 Catherine Blum, 10 

223 Beau Tancrede; or, The Marriage Verdict (small type)... 10 
997 Beau Tancrede; or. The Marriage Verdict (large tjpe)..... 20 

228 The Regent’s Daughter 10 

244 The Three Guardsmen 30 

268 The Forty-five Guardsmen 30 

270 The Page of the Duke of Savoy 10 

278 Six Years Later; or. Taking the Basiile. 20 

283 Twenty Years After 20 

298 Captain Paul 10 

306 Three Strong Men 10 

318 Ingenue 10 

331 Adventures of a Marquis. First half 20 

331 Adventures of a IMarquis. Second half 20 

342 Tire Moliicans of Paris. Vol. T. (small typo) 10 

1565 The Moliicans of Paris. Vol I. (large; iyp.>) 20 

1565 The Moliicans of Paris. Vol. II. (largt' I y i>e) 20 

1565 Tlie Moliicans of Paris. Vol. III. (large type; 20 

1565 The Mohicans of Paris. Vol. IV. (large type; 20 

344 Ascanio 10 

608 The Watchmaker 20 

616 Tlie Two Dianas 20 

622 Andree de Taverney 20 

664 Vicomte de Bragelonne(lst Series) 20 

664 Vicomte de Brageloune (2(1 Series). . . 20 

664 Vicomte de Bragelonne (3d Series). 20 

664 Vicomte de Brageloune (4th Series) 20 

688 Chicot, tlic Jester 20 

849 Doctor Basilius 20 

1452 Salvator: Being the continuation and conclusion of “ The 

Mohicans of Paris.” Vol. 1 20 

1152 Salvator: Being the continuation and conclusion of “ The 

jMoliicans of Paris.” Vol. II 20 

1452 Salvator: Being the continuation and conclusion of “ The 

Mohicans of Ibiris.” Vol, lil, 20 


THE SEaSWE LiEllART. — Oraiuary Eaitun^. 

172 The Chevalier de Maisoii Koiige 20 

184 The Countess de Charny 20 

188 anon 10 

198 Joseph Balsamo; or, Memoirs of a Physician 20 

194 The Conspirators 10 

198 Isabel of Bavaria 10 

201 Catl'.erine Bluin 10 

228 Beau Tancrede; or. The Marriage Verdict (small type).... 10 

997 Beau Tancrede; or, Tlie Marriage Verdict (huge type) 20 

228 The Regent’s Daughter 10 

244 The Three Guardsmen 20 

268 The Forty-five Guardsmen 20 

270 Tlie Page of the Duke of Savoy 10 

278 Six Years Later; or, Taking the Bastile 20 

283 Twenty Years After 20 

298 Captain Paul 10 

806 Three Strong Men , 10 

818 Ingenue 10 

331 Adventures of a Marquis. First half 20 

33i Adventures of a Marquis. Second half 20 

342 The Alohicans of Paris. Vol. I. (small type) 10 

1565 The Mohicans of Paris. Vol I. (large type) 20 

1565 The Mohicans of Paris. Vol. II. (large type) 20 

1565 The Mohicans of Paris. Vol. III. (large type) 20 

1565 The Mohicans of Paris. Vol. IV. (large type) 20 

344 Ascanio 10 

608 The Watclimaker 20 

616 Tlie Two Dianas 20 

622 Andree de Taverney 20 

664 Vicomte de Brageloune (1st Series), 20 

664 Vicomte de Bragelonne (2d Series) 20 

664 Vicomte de Bragelonne (3d Series) 20 

664 Vicomte de Bragelonne (4th Series) 20 

688 Chicot, the Jester . 20 

849 Doctor Basilins 20 

1452 Salvator: Being the continuation and conclusion of “ The 

Mohicans of Paris.” Vol. I 20 

1452 Salvator: Being the continuation and conclusion of “ The 

Mohicans of Paris.” Vol. II.. 2U 

1452 Salvator: Being the continuation and conclusion of “Tlie 

Mohicans of Paris.” Vol. ILL 20 


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455 Lazarus in London. By F. W. Rob- 

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456 Sketches by Boz. Illustrative of 

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457 The Russians at the Gates of Herat. 

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459 A Woman’s Temptation. By Char- 

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460 Under a Shadow. By Charlotte M. 

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